Free The Laughter of Strangers by Michael J Seidlinger

stitch my lips closed. Never again will I speak.
    “Say it again,” Spencer commands.
     
    I KILLED A MAN
     
    He plays it back.
    I hadn’t noticed that he was recording me saying the words.
    “Does that sound like someone who killed a man?”
    Of course not.
    Spencer sighs, “We either do this or we don’t. Tell me now, what is it going to be?”
    So someone that knew me would probably say that I’m not acting like myself. I have never been the type to go soft on something sinister; I am not a moralist. Not at all. I used to enjoy the way it felt to punch someone in the face. You might know me well enough to see that I haven’t been myself since the first chapter. Then again, was that me, or just a permutation, some kind of performance? Where do I look, what do I find when I look in the mirror?
    Willem Floures, I hear, has always been a bit of a rebel.
    He goes against the so-called grain.
    In addition to being a fighter, he used to be the calm and brooding being in interviews, the one that barely spoke but said more with his silence.
    He was all of these things, but not lately.
    Or, maybe, he’s changed. He certainly fights using familiar signature moves and combinations. Depending on where you look, he’s a young prodigy, a journeyman looking to redefine, or an old mainstay, rambling to himself, turning to sensationalism and big lies in order to maintain the audience’s attention. Odds are that’s him. Willem Floures.
    When he says:
     
    I KILLED A MAN
     
    He should mean it.
    He shouldn’t cower behind morality and other sorts of principles.
    He should stop talking in the third person; he isn’t that kind of stylist.
    Yeah so I say it twice more, for Spencer’s sake.
    Each time it feels easier, more innate. Give it a little while longer and I might actually believe it.
    Really though, I just want to rest. I want more painkillers.
    I want to spar for a few rounds. Maybe fight through the pain long enough to feel nothing at all.
    “I killed a man,” and it sounds like something said at face value. I killed a man and tomorrow everyone will know about it.
     
    SILENCE
     
    I get to talking about something else, about the house.
    “You should think about repairing the roof.”
    Spencer shrugs, “Who’s got time for that?”
    Upstairs we hear a loud crashing.
    Alarmed, I sit up.
    “Relax,” Spencer rolls his eyes, “it’s James.”
    “Wait a minute, are you for real?”
    A grin. Spencer says, “What do you think?”
    “I thought it was just some imaginary friend of Sarah’s.”
    He laughs, “Guess.”
    “I haven’t a clue.”
    “I could be lying,” Spencer narrows his eyes, “but it could also be true.”
    He says it again as if this is all one big lesson:
     
    YOU CAN LIE ABOUT THAT
     
    “If you can’t tell the difference, maybe it doesn’t matter.”
    These are a trainer’s words. He is trying to build me back up, trying to beat down all of the doubt that’s boiled to the surface. And I’d thank him for it, but somehow I am still not certain that this will result in something we won’t regret later. However, at the same time, I don’t see how we can stop now.
    It’s already too late.
    This is round two in a fight that probably never ends.
    We fight until winded, and then we fight some more.
    He’s wrong about one thing.
    You can’t lie about that.
    Can’t say it’s a fight you win because I’m not so sure anyone can win this particular fight. The opponent is time and its punches change you until they send you to the ground, six feet down and dead, the last brand of light isn’t limelight, it’s the bright light of the bare bulb hanging from above, the mortician tending to your body.
    Somewhere in there, I feel like I’d still remain.
    Unable to understand if I had died or not.
    Win or lose?
     
    SILENCE
     
    Neither of us says anything.
    I keep my eyes closed. I listen to the house in pain, mimicking my own groans, the ache of each joint, the cuts and bruises that still need