My heart drops. Then so do I.
Literally.
I miss my mark by an inch—just one inch—but that’s all it takes. My grip slips, the silk whips away, and gravity reclaims me like an ex with bad intentions.
I drop hard. Twelve feet. The thud echoes. The audience gasps. Pain flares bright in my ribs and my left elbow, sharp enough to knock a curse loose in my head.
Then I hear it:
“Gutten min!”
Mormor’s scream ricochets off the walls like a holy alarm bell. I swear, even the pyrotechnics guy freezes mid-cue.
“Oh myHerregud,” my mother shrieks. And then she’s moving. Over the seats she climbs, no hesitation. She pushes people out of her way and finally breaks free of the first row. She scales the stage like a panicked mountain goat in a designer dress. “Oh myHerregud! My baby! Are you bleeding?!”
I am. Spiritually.
Gasps ripple through the audience as she barrels toward me, blonde hair whipping behind her, mascara already running. Somewhere behind her, my father shouts. “MOVE! He’s hurt!”and then, he too, is climbing over people like this is a family fire drill and they’re just in the way.
For the first time, I’m looking into the faces of the people I never thought I’d see again. They’re the ones who made me. The ones who molded me into the man I am. The reasons why I felt like I had to fake my own death.
My parents.
My brain is short-circuiting.
The crowd is watching with bated breath, unsure of what the hell is going on.
I’m on my knees, trying to look like this is intentional, while my mother pats my face, “You could have broken your neck! What were you doing up there, like gravity is a fucking joke?”
She tries to pull my mask off, only I yank it back down before she can expose me. “Stop!”
I am literally in hell.
Hell has velvet curtains and spotlight glare.
“Mom, Dad, please—this is my show,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Hold still, what if you have a concussion?” Mom fusses, turning my head side to side, staring into my eyes. My father turns and waves at the crowd. And the audience laughs. Like,oh, maybe this is part of the show.Maybe he didn’t just break his neck. Maybe the clowns are about to come out, too.I mean, Mormor’s praying to every Norse god she can name—loudly.
Fantastic.
Down in the audience, still in her seat, I see that my aunt’s got her phone out, recording this chaos for who knows what purpose.
But no.
Oh no.
My uncles are disappearing backstage.
Oh, no.
Oh, no no no.
That can’t be good.
I scramble to my feet, wincing at the pain in my side and elbow. But I throw my arms wide and step forward. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call improv!”
Oh, theylikethat. I’ll have to keep this in mind for future shows. The audienceerupts. Applause. Laughter. A standing ovation for my suffering. I bow, praying the stage will open and swallow me whole.
