The Unscripted Collapse

Ken shifted on the plastic chair, the material sticking faintly to the back of his jeans. It was an awful chair, one of a dozen identical, stackable monstrosities that had seen countless community functions. The kind where the seat began to numb your backside after ten minutes, then actively ache after twenty. He’d tried to stretch his legs under the table, but his knee bumped Gideon’s, who was already too boisterous for a Saturday morning. Gideon barely registered the contact, too busy miming an invisible drum solo on the table’s chipped laminate surface. Ken just pulled his legs back, tucked them tight.

Mr. Taylor, bless his earnest, ill-fitting cardigan, clapped his hands together, a sound too light for the gravitas he tried to project. “Right, everyone! Settle, settle. Today, we’re delving into… authentic expression.” His smile was wide, a little desperate, like someone trying to reassure themselves more than the group. Authentic expression. Ken chewed on the inside of his cheek. The phrase felt clunky, too deliberate, like a label slapped onto something messy and formless.

Briar, seated opposite Ken, picked at a loose thread on her denim jacket. She had an anxious energy about her, a quiet hum that Ken recognised in himself. Her eyes, large and a soft hazel, darted around the room, avoiding direct contact, but observing everything. He wondered what she saw, what internal monologue played behind those eyes. Probably something similar to his own: a swirling eddy of self-doubt and a creeping dread of being asked to 'express authentically'.

Gideon, meanwhile, leaned back precariously on his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. He was one of those people who seemed to operate at a higher volume than everyone else, his presence a physical weight in the air. Ken had met types like him before; they thrived in the artificial vulnerability of a workshop, mistaking volume for depth, performance for authenticity. He caught Gideon’s eye for a fleeting second, and Gideon winked. Ken quickly looked down, a flush creeping up his neck.

“We’re going to try something a little different,” Mr. Taylor announced, wringing his hands. “A non-verbal exercise. I want you each, in turn, to step into the centre of the room, and without speaking, without writing, use only your body… your essence… to convey something deeply personal. A fear. A hope. A secret. Something you wouldn’t normally share.” He gestured vaguely towards the dusty patch of linoleum in the middle of the circle of chairs. “Don’t overthink it! Let your true self emerge.”

Ken felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. A fear. A hope. A secret. His mind immediately went blank, then flooded with a thousand things, none of which he wanted to 'convey' to a room full of strangers under the glare of those buzzing, unforgiving lights. His current fear was precisely this exercise. His hope was to become invisible. His secret… well, he had too many, all tangled up and far too fragile to be 'expressed' non-verbally on a sticky linoleum floor.

The first person, a girl named Pippa, went. She stood stiffly, arms pressed to her sides, then slowly, tentatively, curled into a ball, drawing her knees to her chest, her head tucked low. It was a clear, if somewhat cliché, depiction of vulnerability. The group murmured softly, a collective sigh of understanding. Mr. Taylor beamed, nodding vigorously. “Excellent, Pippa! We see you. We feel it.” His pronouncements felt a little too saccharine, almost performative in themselves.

Ken’s own breath hitched. He noticed a faint, almost invisible cobweb stretching from the leg of his chair to the table beside him, shimmering in the artificial light. His socks were bunched up inside his boots, creating a small, persistent discomfort. Tiny, irrelevant details, but his mind clung to them, anything to avoid contemplating his turn.

Then it was Briar’s go. She hesitated, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. She walked to the centre, her movements economical, almost hesitant. She didn’t curl up like Pippa. Instead, she stood straight, her shoulders slightly hunched, her gaze fixed on a distant point above their heads. Slowly, she raised her hands, palms open, not towards the group, but slightly upwards, as if offering something. Her fingers trembled just perceptibly. Then, with an almost imperceptible shudder, she slowly, carefully, closed her hands into fists, drawing them tight against her chest, her knuckles white. It wasn't aggressive; it was protective. A silent clenching, a withholding. A desperate, internal struggle.

Ken watched, a prickle of recognition, sharp and sudden, running down his spine. It wasn’t a secret she was conveying, not in the traditional sense, but the *act* of having secrets, the burden of holding them, the fight to keep them. It was a subtle, complicated piece of physical theatre, far more nuanced than Pippa's. He wondered what she was holding so tightly. What was so precious or terrifying that it demanded such fierce protection? He felt a strange pang of empathy, a silent acknowledgement of her struggle.

Briar slowly lowered her hands, then her head, and retreated to her chair. The silence that followed was different. Less understanding, more… thoughtful. Like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading out, unsettling something. Mr. Taylor, for once, seemed at a loss for words, his bright smile faltering. He just nodded, a slow, uncertain movement. “Briar… that was… powerful,” he managed finally, his voice a little softer than before.

Gideon's Unravelling

Gideon was next. He sprang up, his chair clattering loudly, oblivious or uncaring. He strode to the centre, a predatory grin on his face. “Alright, my turn, eh?” he boomed, even though talking was supposedly out. Mr. Taylor cleared his throat, but Gideon just waved a dismissive hand. He stood for a moment, chest puffed out, then began to pace, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed, staring hard at each person in the circle, challenging them. He punched the air, not violently, but with a sharp, controlled aggression, like a boxer hitting an invisible speed bag. He gestured, wide and sweeping, as if taking up more space than the room allowed, his movements growing larger, faster, more dominant. He pounded his fist against his open palm, a rhythmic thud that made Ken flinch. It was not a portrayal of a fear, or a hope, or a secret. It was a performance of power. Of controlled rage, perhaps, or a desire for control.

The air in the room thickened. The collective breathing of the group became shallower, almost imperceptible. Gideon wasn't sharing vulnerability; he was projecting dominance, an unsettling, almost hostile energy. He finished abruptly, stopping dead in the centre, his chest heaving, his eyes still raking the faces in the circle. The silence this time was heavy, laced with discomfort. No murmurs. No soft sighs. Just the relentless hum of the lights.

Mr. Taylor tried to reclaim the moment, his voice strained. “Gideon… that was certainly… energetic. What were you trying to convey, perhaps… a desire to be seen?” He tried to sound encouraging, but the words fell flat, dissolving into the tense quiet. Gideon just shrugged, that same smirk on his face, and walked back to his chair, knocking it against Rowan’s as he sat down. Rowan, a slender person with intricate tattoos up their arms, just exhaled slowly, their shoulders slumping.

Ken felt a tremor in his hands, clenching them into fists under the table. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. The safe, contained vulnerability of Pippa, the subtle, profound internalisation of Briar… this was something else. This was raw, untamed, and felt dangerous. He wanted to get up, to leave, to disappear, but his feet felt glued to the floor. A morbid curiosity held him, a grim fascination with the car crash unfolding in slow motion.

“No, that wasn’t… ‘energetic’,” a quiet voice spoke up. It was Rowan. Their voice was soft but firm. “That felt… aggressive, Gideon. Like you were trying to scare us.”

Gideon snorted. “Scare you? What, are you a kitten, Rowan? It’s called being authentic, mate. Not everyone’s a shrinking violet.”

“Authentic doesn’t mean being a bully!” Briar’s voice, usually soft, rose unexpectedly, sharper than Ken had ever heard it. She was gripping the arms of her chair, her knuckles white again. “It means… it means being *real*. Not… not making everyone uncomfortable.”

“Oh, so you decide what’s ‘real’, do you, little miss delicate?” Gideon sneered, turning his full attention to Briar. His eyes were cold, devoid of the earlier performative bravado. This was something real, something ugly, bubbling to the surface. The mask had slipped.

“Stop it,” Mr. Taylor interjected, his voice finally firm, though a tremor ran through it. “Gideon, that’s not appropriate. We’re here to support each other.”

“Support each other in our little echo chamber of feelings, you mean?” Gideon laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “This whole thing is a joke. ‘Authentic expression’? It’s just an excuse for everyone to whinge about their sad little lives.” He gestured wildly around the room, taking them all in, his gaze lingering with particular contempt on Briar, who was now trembling visibly.

Ken felt a surge of cold fury, mixed with the ever-present anxiety. He wanted to say something, to defend Briar, but the words snagged in his throat, a tight, unyielding knot. His mouth felt dry, metallic. He hated this, hated the confrontation, hated the way Gideon was weaponising vulnerability, turning it into something sharp and cruel. The fluorescent hum seemed to intensify, vibrating in his teeth.

Briar suddenly stood, pushing her chair back so hard it crashed to the floor. The sound cracked through the tension, a sharp, violent punctuation. Her face was mottled red and white, her eyes glistening. “You don’t know anything about… about anything!” she choked out, her voice breaking, thick with tears that had begun to stream down her face. She wasn’t looking at Gideon; she was looking past him, at the wall, at some unseen horror only she could perceive. Her hands flew up, not in an aggressive gesture, but a desperate, flailing motion, as if trying to swat away invisible attackers. Her chest heaved, a raw, uncontrolled sob tearing from her throat.

She wasn't performing now. This was real. Too real. Her whole body shook, a small, fragile thing buffeted by an unseen storm. The quiet vulnerability she’d shown moments before had shattered, exposing something truly broken beneath. A sharp, stinging scent, like static electricity or burning sugar, filled Ken’s nostrils. It was the smell of fear, perhaps, or something far worse. He watched, horrified, as she sank back to her knees, collapsing beside the overturned chair, sobbing uncontrollably, her face buried in her arms. Her jeans were stretched tight, the fabric strained over her knees, and he could see the faint indentations of the floor’s cold linoleum pressing into her skin.

The Unravelling

The room erupted. Pippa gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. Rowan immediately moved towards Briar, kneeling beside her, murmuring soft, unintelligible words. Another participant, a quiet young man named Owen, looked utterly bewildered, his eyes wide and vacant. Gideon, for his part, looked momentarily stunned, his cruel smirk replaced by a flicker of something almost akin to fear, or perhaps just surprise. He had pushed too far. He’d broken the unspoken rules.

“Briar! Oh, dear,” Mr. Taylor stammered, rushing forward, his hands flapping uselessly. He looked like a bewildered pigeon caught in a hurricane. “Everyone, please. This is… this is not… We need to calm down.” His voice, usually so measured, was high and reedy, completely devoid of authority. He tried to lay a hand on Briar’s shoulder, but she flinched away from his touch, her sobs intensifying.

“What did you expect, Mr. Taylor?” Rowan’s voice, now sharper, accusatory, cut through the din. “You ask people to lay bare their deepest fears, then you let someone like Gideon… like *that*.” They shot a furious glance at Gideon. “You created this, with your ‘authentic expression’ nonsense.”

“My nonsense?!” Gideon spluttered, recovering his bluster. “She’s the one having a meltdown! I just said what everyone was thinking! This whole thing is a load of tripe!”

“It’s not tripe, you arrogant prick!” This was from Pippa, her face flushed with anger. “You just can’t handle anything real!”

The room descended into a chaotic, overlapping cacophony of raised voices, accusations, and the raw, guttural sobs of Briar. It was a maelstrom of uncontained emotion, a truly unscripted performance, but one that was violent, ugly, and entirely devoid of the catharsis Mr. Taylor had so naively hoped for. Ken felt the air grow impossibly heavy, humid with the heat of angry bodies, and the cloying, sharp scent of distress. His head throbbed. He noticed the faint green mould growing on the underside of a folding table leg nearby, a small, insignificant detail, yet it somehow grounded him in the chaotic reality of the room.

Mr. Taylor stood in the middle of it all, arms outspread, looking utterly lost, his face pale, his eyes darting frantically from one angry face to another. “Please! We need to breathe. We need to… regulate!” he pleaded, his voice cracking, swallowed by the rising tide of shouting. He was clearly beyond his depth, the fragile structure of his workshop crumbling around him like a sandcastle hit by an unexpected wave.

Ken couldn’t breathe. He felt a desperate, primal urge to escape. His chair, which had felt like a trap, now offered a fleeting anchor. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, then slowly, deliberately, pushed himself to his feet. No one noticed him. No one cared. They were all too caught up in their own raw, bleeding realities. He took a single, unsteady step backward, then another, easing himself out of the tight circle, away from the screaming, the crying, the oppressive heat of all that unmanaged feeling. He felt a weird, numb disconnect, like his own body was moving independently of his mind.

He bumped into a coat rack near the door, sending a couple of raincoats slithering to the floor. The soft thud was barely audible over the din, but it was enough to jolt him. He reached for the heavy oak door, his fingers fumbling for the cold, brass handle. He could feel the vibrations of the shouting through the wood, a low thrum against his palm. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back. The air in the room felt toxic, thick with unspoken truths and accidental cruelties.

He stepped out into the crisp autumn air, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, final click. The relative quiet of the empty corridor, smelling faintly of stale disinfectant and old floor wax, was a shock. The sound of shouting and Briar’s broken sobs were muffled now, a distant, angry murmur, but they still echoed in his head, a discordant symphony of human pain. He leaned against the cool cinder-block wall, breathing deeply, dragging the cold, clean air into his lungs, trying to purge the stench of fear and anger. The sky outside the frosted window at the end of the hall was a bruised purple, the day fading fast. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. He didn’t know if this was because of the cold, or something else entirely. The workshop hadn’t provided authentic expression; it had simply ripped off a scab, exposing a wound that refused to heal, and he was left standing in the fading light, completely hollowed out.