The Show

Rebecca Billette is a freshman at Watauga.

She says, "I enjoy writing because I enjoy reading" and she's "always wanted to bring other people the same satisfaction that reading has always brought me."

Rebecca says that when she writes she feels "free- like I can finally put all the thoughts and ideas in my head on paper. It allows me to say things in a different way- to make points I wouldn't otherwise be able to make- while still keeping it entertaining."

Rebecca's short story "The Show" is inspired by "the phoniness of our society, and the pressure put on people to feel a certain way in certain situations."

You can read her piece below.

The Show

Rebecca Billette

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

They sit around the circular dining table, hands joined, eyes closed.

They are silent.

Each internally says their piece, and remains that way, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking 35 times before they open their eyes and begin to eat.

All is silent, but for the quiet clank of cutlery and the soft chewing of food.

The Family eats their dinner of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and tomato soup without discussion. They are halfway done when the scream pierces the air.

They pause.

They sigh.

It is showtime.

They lower their utensils, lift their napkins from their lap and carefully fold them on the table. They stand and walk slowly to the front door, the sobbing and screaming from the street buzzing in their ears.

When they reach it, they pause. The Mother turns to The Children, and, with her fingertips, pushes the edges of her mouth down, from a smile to a frown. The Children- The Sister and The Brother- do the same.

The Father nods, frowns as well, and opens the door.

The show begins.

The Mother cries out to her neighbors, her face red and her eyes wet. “What’s happened? Oh dear, oh dear.”

The Children sob incoherently, The Father hugging them tightly, his lips pursed in worry.

The Neighbor- the one with orange hair and red lipstick- runs for The Mother, a handkerchief held to her crying eyes. She says, between hiccups, “It’s Harold- Margot found him. It was horrendous…so much blood- so much blood.”

Beneath their masks of sadness, The Family and even The Neighbor are apathetic- they don’t even know who Harold is- or rather, was. They only knew him as The Baker.

But they don’t show it. The Neighbor collapses in tears, The Mother sobs with her, muttering about how unfair it all is, The Sister holds The Brother’s hand, scared and confused, The Father meets with The Officer, trying to stay strong and give his account of the evening.

“We were simply eating dinner, when we heard the scream. Of course, we ran outside immediately. Such a tragedy.”

The Officer removes his hat. “Downright barbaric, this one is. We’ll catch him, sir, don’t you fret.”

“I never do, Officer. My trust in you never wavers.”

Beneath their masks, they do not care. The Officer has seen too many of these for him to feel anything. The Father has no trust- but he does not care- it doesn’t affect him.

But they discuss how worried they are, how unfortunate it all is.

The Family can’t wait for it all to be over, so they can finish their dinner- but they must show their respect- or they would be ostracized.

They would be heartless.

So it’s better to be fake.

The Mother continues her performance: takes The Sister’s hand in her right, The Brother’s hand in her left, asks to see Margot, or as she is better known, The Florist, and leads The Family to The Baker’s house.

The Mother nudges The Sister- who is thinking about her dollhouse at home and how she wishes she could be playing with it right now. Her mask has fallen off.

She rightens it.

They reach The Baker’s house and walk past the living room, where Harold’s dead body lies.

He is sitting in the corner, surrounded by caution tape. His eyes are lifeless- and on the other side of the room. His eye sockets are caked in dry blood, his skin a pale contrast from its deep red. His arm is hanging by a thread- or rather, a bone. It’s sliding onto the floor, each finger twisted at a different angle. The other arm is missing, leaving a hole where it used to be. A deep gash in his chest pours dark red blood, so much so you couldn’t even tell the color of his shirt.

The Family pauses for a second, deciding how best to show their distress.

Then they act.

The Mother covers her mouth and lets out a shuddering gasp, The Brother cries in the corner and covers his eyes. The Sister runs outside and vomits. The Father gulps hard, a single tear dripping down his face.

But they do not care. They have no reason to.

But they must prove they have hearts- that they are not machines.

“Margot’s in the other room.” The Neighbor manages, guiding The Family along, her own voice shaky. “She’s rather upset by the whole thing.”

Margot, or rather, The Florist, is not upset. When she came across the dead body, she felt next to nothing. A small twinge of disappointment, perhaps, but nothing more. But that’s not how it’s supposed to be. She’s supposed to be disgusted, revolted, torn apart.

So she pretends.

She’s huddled on her bed, hyperventilating and sobbing. Her face is in her hands, tears are in her eyes, but all that’s in her head is the question of whether or not she was in Harold’s will.

The Mother holds The Florist close to her, murmuring empty phrases- phrases she knows she’s supposed to say. But she can’t help but cringe as she hears them coming from her own mouth.

Margot smiles softly and says her thanks. The Sister hands her a flower she picked in the garden. The Father gives her a good long stare and says, “You’re going to get through this.”

She purses her lips and nods, as if she hasn’t already.

The Mother is beginning to grow impatient- her soup is growing cold.

She nudges The Sister and whispers, “Act like you’re sick.”

The Sister does so, to a tremendous extent. She clutches her stomach and groans loudly.

“Mama-” she mutters, “I don’t feel too well.”

The Mother reaches down and envelops her in her arms. “Oh dear- how foolish of me. This is too much for a young girl like yourself to witness.”

She turns to Margot. “I’m terribly sorry, but we really must go.”

The Florist nods furiously, “Of course- of course- thank you for stopping by.”

As they leave the room, she smiles and takes off her mask.

The Family briskly leaves the Baker’s house, gratefully letting their masks slip for just a moment as they cross the threshold of the front door. It’s exhausting pretending to care about a murder.

As The Family nears their house, they spot The Neighbor and The Officer conversing on their driveway.

The Father tightens his grip on The Brother’s hand. He just wants to get inside and finish his soup, but it seems the world is conspiring against him.

“Officer!” he calls out politely, “Is everything all right?”

As they draw closer, The Family notices The Officer has a dog with him. It is sniffing the ground furiously, darting around in circles.

The Officer wrings out his hands- he has to bring a police dog on site, per regulations, but he just wants to get it over with. “Oh yes,” he replies. “Just procedure.”

The Family sighs in relief.

They will not be held up any longer.

They can go finish their dinner.

The dog barks suddenly, its nose pointed towards The Family’s house. Beneath the masks, everyone frowns. They just want to go home.

The dog lunges for the front door. It is the only living thing on the street that actually cares about Harold.

The Officer obliges the dog, and asks The Family to let him inspect the house. They unlock the front door, enter, and The Neighbor, nosy as she is, tags along.

The dog bolts for the dining room table, where the roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and boiled soup sit, still steaming.

The Officer smiles- this one is genuine. The case is over.

“Well,” he says, “It appears Waldo here,” he gestures to the dog, “Just smelled your dinner.”

He tips his hat and drags the dog and The Neighbor, who is rather disappointed as she’d have loved for some drama, out of the house.

“Have a nice meal, folks!” he calls back.

The Family waits a moment.

And then sighs.

They let their masks fall off, and reveal their true selves- their apathetic, monotone selves.

They sit down and begin to eat their dinner.

Their roasted chicken, basted with butter and crisped to perfection, their mashed potatoes, seasoned with pepper and coated in sour cream, and their soup, which contains Harold’s missing arm, and some diced tomatoes.