Tragedy!

Tiffany lazily watched the amber liquid cascade against her glass’s ice as she swirled it alongside the bar. She gave it a contemptuous look and her stomach, or maybe her liver, lurched as she lifted the glass to her lips and swallowed its contents in one gulp.

She grimaced, gave a glance at the bartender who had been lingering around her all night, tapped on the bar, and he filled the glass with more bourbon. She was drinking Basil tonight. It went down smoothly, and she was able to down it quickly. After all, she only had one goal tonight: to get entirely and unequivocally drunk.

“I just don’t get it,” Carly said as she sipped her Chardonnay on the seat next to her. “You’re just so normal.”

Yup, I’m definitely not drunk enough, thought Tiffany, holding back her anger. That pissed me off way more than it should have.

Without hesitation, she tipped her head back again and downed the rest of her bourbon. She reached for her wallet and took a couple of bills out; enough for the bourbon, but also knowing that it was a more than generous tip for the bartender.

She placed a hand on Carly’s shoulder, which was meant to show a small measure of affection. Truthfully, Tiffany was using her to keep balance so she didn’t fall flat on her face. “Thanks for coming out tonight, Carly, but I think I’m going to head out.”

A look of worry washed over Carly’s face. “Are you sure you’re all right? With what happened, do you think you should be spending the night alone? At least let me walk you home. I’m pretty sure you just finished a bottle by yourself.”

Carly glanced at the bartender, who gave her a short nod of confirmation.

Bastard, Tiffany thought as she saw him swoop up his tip before she could take it back. Fucker needs to mind his own business.

“I’ll be fine,” Tiffany said as she mustered all her self-control to not sway on her feet and to look as sober as possible. “This place is just down the block from my apartment. It’ll only take me a couple of minutes to get home.”

Not waiting for Carly to answer, Tiffany walked toward the bar’s exit and sent Carly a sloppy wave without glancing at her. “Have a good night! Thanks again!”

“I’ll text you in the morning! You better answer your phone!”

The cold, autumn night air greeted Tiffany. She sighed. It was the first night of the rest of her life after what happened. She didn’t know how she would move on from this, but without a doubt, the thin silver lining of it all was that it was at least a Friday night. She had all weekend to try to forget about it, or at least drink enough until she did.

----

“Miss Foskey?”

Tiffany groaned as she moved her body. She felt like it was weighed down by several heavy blankets, which surprised her, as with the amount she drank last night, it was a miracle she had enough willpower to get under them, let alone make it to her bed.

“Miss Foskey, we’re waiting. Can you please hurry up?”

It took a few seconds for her mind to interpret the phantom voice, and then her eyes shot open. The sudden flooding of light into her pupils immediately caused her hangover to make its presence known, and she could only whimper, “Fuck….”

Once the pain subsided, she slowly opened her eyes, allowing the light in as her eyes focused on her surroundings. In front of her stood a man in front of a podium that stood about as high as his chest. He wore a blue sports jacket with a red power tie that was tightened properly around his neck. The man must have been in his mid-thirties, and he was sporting a somewhat disapproving frown that was pointing in her direction. His thick, bushy auburn mustache that barely curled at the tips only magnified the frown.

”Who?” asked Tiffany as she unconsciously wiped the drool from her mouth. She found that she was also standing at a podium that had a single, red button sitting in the middle of the pedestal. She couldn’t help herself; she pressed the thing out of pure, unchecked curiosity. An ear-piercing buzz echoed around her and she muttered, “Did that really need to be that loud?”

“Miss Foskey,” said the man sitting across from her. She met his eyes and he gave her a disappointed shake of his head. “Can you please refrain from buzzing until I ask a question?”

“What?”

The man sighed as if he was dealing with a small child. He motioned to the side, which showed a large LCD screen filled with multiple columns. On top of the screen were large, red letters that glowed obnoxiously: Tragedy!

“You do know where you are, don’t you, Miss Foskey?” asked the game host. He motioned to himself and continued, “I’m Bill Knightly, and this is Tragedy!”

The man raised his hands and thunderous applause roared around them. Tiffany squinted her eyes in pain, as the applause did little to alleviate her migraine. A feeling of eeriness washed over her as she realized that the only person she could see was the mysterious game show host, Bill Knightly. In fact, she was all alone with this man besides the television and the ominous glowing red letters of Tragedy!

“What…” She began to repeat herself, only to get cut off by the sharply dressed man.

“Ma’am, we don’t have all day for you to play catch-up. The audience came to see a slow, and you are rudely keeping them waiting.”

“We’re the only ones here,” Tiffany complained in exasperation, trying to get a handle on the situation. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

Bill Knightly and his mustache stared down at her disapprovingly. Tiffany could see the man was mulling over if he was going to answer her question or not. Instead, there was an awkward moment of silence until he plastered on a disgustingly fake, beaming smile. His teeth were a perfect, pearly white. He motioned toward the screen, exclaimed loudly to the imaginary audience that Tiffany still couldn’t see, and proclaimed, “Here are today’s categories!”

“Algae Whiz! Musical Clefts! Songs for Your Cat! Tragic Mother Deaths! Comics Relief! Potent Potables!”

As Bill Knightly ticked off each category, the rows were populated with dollar amounts that began with 200 dollars and ended with 1,000 dollars.

Tiffany stared dumbfounded at the categories. Her attention was solely fixated on one in particular.

“Miss Foskey, it’s your turn to pick a category,” stated Bill Knightly as he caught her attention and motioned to the board.

“Wait…wait a second,” Tiffany said as her breath staggered. Her heart somehow sank, yet at the same time, felt like it would burst out of her chest. She knew she was having a panic attack. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Bill Knightly didn’t answer. He just stared at her with his fake, beaming smile while his hand pointed toward the newly formed categories. Tiffany’s eyes darted from the host to the category that read: “Tragic Mother Deaths.” Her mouth opened to form words, but none came out.

A loud buzz echoed through the room and Bill Knightly’s voice floated out in a sympathetic crescendo, “I’m sorry, Miss Foskey, but it seems you’ve lost control. Mr. Devitt? It’s your turn to pick a category!”

No sooner did his words form the new arrival’s name did the man pop into existence. A man in a red-and-black plaid jacket wearing a hat that showed the word Tragedy! in red stitching stood neatly behind a podium to Tiffany’s side. The man himself, however, had no distinguishable features. He was more of a phantom than a man, and as the creature opened his mouth, words came out in a Brooklyn accent, “Yeah, Bill! I’d like to pick Tragic Mother Deaths for two hundred, please.”

After Mr. Devitt picked his category, the 200 disappeared and new words appeared on the screen: Who found your mother’s body the first time it happened?

Tiffany stood in horror as Bill Knightly’s focus turned to Tiffany. Next to her, she could feel Mr. Devitt’s head turn in her direction; he obviously had no desire to answer the question. Everyone present knew who had the answer to the question, and Tiffany's hand pressed the buzzer with a mind of its own.

“Miss Foskey, you have the floor,” Bill Knightly said with the same smile plastered on his face.

She felt goosebumps on her arms as if a million eyes were staring at her…waiting for her every word. The previously invisible audience slowly materialized into existence as if she commanded them. Their eyes stared eagerly at her, waiting for her answer.

“I did,” said Tiffany in a whisper, trying to make herself as little as possible. “I found her.”

“How did you find her?” asked Bill Knightly. His smile faded from his face. His expression was emotionless as he waited patiently for her answer.

“I was around twelve,” muttered Tiffany. Her words flowed from her mouth even though she wanted nothing more than to shut it. She felt a tear flow down her cheek as some unknown force made her relive the moment. “I came back from school. All the lights were off, which was strange. Mom was always there when I got home, and her car was still in the driveway. I didn’t give it a thought and went inside. I walked into the dining room and called her name, but she didn’t answer. I continued calling her name, and that was when I found her. She was on the floor behind the sink. She was lying in her vomit, and I saw white pills sitting in the vomit. The smell. I can still remember the smell. I shook her a couple of times. She didn’t answer. I don’t remember what happened afterward. I somehow called Dad, and he called 9-1-1.”

“I didn’t know that,” a voice said from behind.

The film set of Tragedy! disappeared, and Tiffany found herself in her father’s living room. All of them were sitting in the living room as they tried to understand what had happened the previous day.

The voice belonged to her brother. His eyes looked wounded as he heard for the first time that his mother had tried to commit suicide over a decade ago.

“You were in Afghanistan,” her father said pleadingly. “You had enough to worry about. Plus, by the time you got back, she was better. We didn’t want to embarrass her, and we thought you were better off not knowing.”

A chime rang through the room, the living room faded from existence, and Tiffany found herself in Tragedy! once again.

“That’ll be two hundred dollars for Miss Foskey!” exclaimed Bill Knightly. “She now has control.”

Tiffany’s eyes lingered on Tragic Mother Deaths for 400 but she desperately called out, “Potent Potables for two hundred, please.”

Bill Knightly grinned dimly and lightly shook his head. The same shake of the head that a disappointed parent would give their child. The 400 for Tragic Mother Deaths disappeared and new text appeared on the screen: Why did your mother try to comment suicide again?

The familiar sound of her brother’s voice appeared after a buzzing sound on the opposite side of Mr. Devitt, and her brother appeared as the third contestant for Tragedy!

“It was my fault. My daughter was born, and I told her not to come. We had been estranged for years, and she hardly ever came to see my son. When we did talk, we always ended up yelling at each other. I didn’t want anything to do with her anymore.”

A buzzer rang out its disapproval and Bill Knightly said apologetically, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Foskey, but I’m afraid that is the incorrect answer.”

The game show host’s head swiveled toward Tiffany. “Miss Foskey, I’m sure you can enlighten us on this matter.”

Tiffany looked toward Mr. Devitt, hoping he’d buzz in to answer, but it looked like the phantom was currently picking his nose, utterly oblivious to everyone else in the room. Next, she saw her brother, who looked at her as a lifeline, asking her for any reason not to blame himself for his mother’s death.

She couldn’t help herself and began giving her brother any solace she could offer.

“She called us the day your wife was giving birth – both me and dad. She gave us an ultimatum…either your family, or her. I tried to tell her that it was idiotic to make us choose, but she was adamant. I ended up screaming at her. Telling her that I was going to see my new niece, and then I hung up on her.”

A chime rang out, and the audience clapped in applause for Tiffany.

“That’s another four hundred for Miss Foskey! She is running away with the game, folks!”

A musical jingle rang out as Bill Knightly finished his praise. His voice continued in gleeful anticipation, “Do you know what that sound means, audience?”

The audience roared their answer, “Final Tragedy!”

Mr. Devitt, Tiffany’s brother, and the audience faded from existence. A red spotlight centered itself on Tiffany. The room darkened, and only she and Bill Knightly remained.

He pulled a card from his jacket. He gave it a glance, which caused his eyebrows to raise. He tucked it politely back into its place and said quizzically, “Whose fault is it that your mother died?”

“It’s my fault,” Tiffany said without hesitation. Her anger burned away her sadness and self-loathing. She hated everything.

Tragedy!

Bill Knightly and his stupid mustache.

And most of all, she hated herself.

Bill didn’t say anything. He simply waited…waited for her to elaborate further.

“This is all my fault,” Tiffany repeated. “She called me, you know. She called me before she did it. Before she committed suicide.”

“What did she say?” Bill asked, his features slowly fading.

“I didn’t answer it!” Tiffany screamed, finally telling the truth. She hadn’t told a single soul about this. She felt the tears coming, but she immediately wiped them off before they could begin. She had cried enough already. “I was so angry that I cut the connection when I saw her number.”

Bill wasn’t there anymore. She was alone in the darkness with her podium. The red spotlight still blared its accusing beam as she continued wailing to no one.

“She left me a message,” she said as she dug her phone out of her pocket. She showed it for all the world to see, even though no one was there. “I didn’t listen to it. I deleted it, and she was dead a couple of hours later.”

The red spotlight slowly faded. Tiffany looked at her phone pleadingly and whispered a question, “What did she say? If I answered, would I have been able to save her?”

No one answered.

The spotlight faded, and Tiffany was alone in the darkness.

----

A car alarm woke Tiffany up that morning. Along with it came a splitting migraine that felt like it ate at her very being.

She gingerly sat up from her bed and shivered slightly as she recalled her nightmare. Although it had been a dream, her admissions were all truthful.

It’s my fault, she thought as the nightmarish words repeated in her head over and over. All of it. It’s all my fault.

Her phone vibrated on the nightstand by her bed.

She read the oldest message first. It was from Carly, which said: Hey, did you get home yet?

It was followed by a second message: Bitch you’re probably too drunk to read this. I’m coming over with coffee in the morning, ok? You better be there!

Tiffany stared at the time on her phone. It was only seven o’clock. She had at least a few more hours until Carly dragged herself out of her bed. She typed out a quick message, paused, and then finished it: I’m home all safe and sound. No worries! And Carly? Thanks…

Against her better judgment, she read the last message from her father: Tiffany, are you coming home today? Your brother said he might come over and…

Tiffany didn’t finish reading it. She put her phone down next to the bottle of Buffalo Trace that she probably dug out of the cabinet when she got home last night. Luckily, she left the cap off, took a swig, and wiped her mouth with her free wrist.

She couldn’t face them…not today.

If she did, she was afraid she’d tell them the truth.

She’d hold onto her last secret.

She took another light sip of her bourbon, placed the bottle on her lap, and sat in silence until one last lingering thought came to mind.

It’s all my fault.