I was a child the first time I heard the laugh.
I had fallen in the park. My knees were scraped raw against the ground, blood running down my legs. It hurt enough that I couldn't stand, hurt enough that I started to cry.
Then I heard it.
Hahahah—
I looked around, confused. The other children had already stopped playing. No one was pointing. No one was smiling.
The laugh didn't come from them.
I don't know where it came from.
My mother rushed toward me when she saw the blood.
"Oh my God—are you okay?" she said, kneeling in front of me. Her hands trembled as she lifted my chin, checking my face, my arms, my legs.
"My knees hurt," I cried.
She pulled me close, pressing my head against her chest. I could feel her heartbeat, fast and worried.
That was when I heard it again.
Hahahah—
I stiffened in her arms.
I pulled back and looked around. "Why are they laughing?" I asked.
She froze.
"Who's laughing?" she said.
"I don't know," I said. "I fell. Why someone is laughing? Is this funny?"
Her eyes searched the park. There were only strangers, trees, and silence.
"No one's laughing," she said quietly.
She held me tighter after that.
She wiped the blood from my knees with her sleeve and stood.
"Let's go home now," she said softly. "We'll clean it and make it better."
She lifted me gently into her arms. I buried my face into her shoulder as she carried me across the park. The world swayed with each step. I could smell dust, grass, and her perfume.
We reached the parking lot.
She opened the car door and set me down carefully on the seat. Her hands were steady now as she pulled the seatbelt across my chest and clicked it into place.
"Stay still," she said.
I nodded.
She closed the door and walked around to the driver's side. The engine started.
We drove off.
The road stretched ahead of us, quiet and ordinary. Trees passed by the window. The sky was bright. Everything looked normal again.
There was no laughter this time..
I wondered if it had ever come from people in the first place..
Later that night, my mother sat on the edge of my bed with a book in her hands.
"Peter Rabbit," she said, smiling.
Her voice was soft as she read. The lamp beside us cast a warm yellow light across the room. I listened to her words, but my eyes grew heavy before Peter ever escaped the garden.
I fell asleep before the story ended.
I felt her kiss my forehead. I heard her whisper goodnight. Then the room faded.
I was standing on a stage.
Bright lights burned my eyes. I tried to move, but my legs felt stiff, wrong. That was when I realized I was naked.
Rows and rows of people. An audience that stretched endlessly into the dark. Their faces were twisted with delight. Fingers pointed at me. Mouths opened wide.
Hahahahah—
They laughed and laughed and laughed.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. I tried to cover myself, but my arms wouldn't work. The laughter grew louder, sharper, as if it was cutting into my skin.
I wanted them to stop laughing. I tried and tried to shout, stop.
That was when I noticed my mouth.
A needle moved across my lips, pulling thread through my skin. A syringe followed, numbing everything. There was no pain — only terror.
I used all my strength to lift my arm, trying to stop my mouth from being sewn shut, while the audience laughed, delighted, endlessly amused.
I woke up screaming
Tears streamed down my face as I curled into myself. My chest hurt. I couldn't breathe.
Then I heard my parents.
Their voices came from the other room. Angry. Loud. Words I wasn't supposed to hear. Swearing. Accusations. Fear wrapped in shouting.
I stopped crying.
I was scared of my parents. Their voices were growing louder, heavier with swearing.
Then the laughter came again.
I covered my ears with both hands, pressing hard, trying to block out everything — the arguing, the shouting, the laughter.
"Stop," I whispered.
But it didn't stop.
It never listened..