Punchlines That Never Heal [Wraith]
April shows up smelling like wet pavement and cheap plastic confetti,That one dumb stretch of calendar where the world shrugs and agrees that lying is “just for fun” as long as everyone laughs pretty,Signs at the office saying “out of order” on bathrooms that still work, sugar swapped with salt, fake lotteries, fake crushes, fake pity,Whole day dressed in the costume of harmless mischief while every damaged part of you remembers when “just kidding” carved real scars on your city,You stand at the edge of it watching the first stupid prank unfold like it’s a rerun of a show where you already know who doesn’t make it out witty.
Someone tapes a “KICK ME” to a stranger’s back,And the crowd indulges, nudges, “light taps,” little kicks that conveniently line up with old bruises no one bothered to track,He laughs too loud, playing off the sting as if acknowledging pain would violate the terms of this clown-packed pact,The room stinks of cheap soda and stale breath and that thin sweat people get when they’re trying not to react,A chorus of “relax, we’re just messing with you” claps over his shoulders like hands that never actually help him stand back.
High school comes crawling out of memory like mold from under wet wallpaper.You remember lockers slammed shut with notes inside saying “just kidding, nobody wanted you at the party anyway,”Remember that one April afternoon when someone told you they liked you and your ribs flew open like windows that never got to stay that way,Five minutes later it was a joke, a dare, a “god, did you really believe that?” followed by hysterical laughter echoing down the hallway,While your insides stood there naked, holding flowers grown out of the rare moment you trusted what someone had the nerve to say.
April is the month where cruelty gets a hall pass stamped “tradition” in glitter gel pen ink,Where you can swap out someone’s medication, fake a death text, fake a pregnancy, fake an eviction notice and as long as you scream “APRIL FOOLS” before they cry too hard you’re not the villain, just an edgy link,People film the panic, upload the footage, watch it loop on tiny screens while eating dinner,Comment sections full of “lol they’re sensitive” and “could never be me” from folks who have no clue what it’s like to always be the sinner,Even when the only thing you did to deserve the punchline was trust that the words coming toward you weren’t rigged to splinter.
They don’t see the part after.Not the face in the bathroom mirror arguing with itself over whether you “overreacted” or if maybe you should toughen up and stop trying so desperately to matter,Not the way you start reading every sentence as bait, every compliment as a setup, every text as a potential trap,Not the way your body flinches two seconds too early now, predicting impact where there might just be a harmless tap,Not the way “just joking” burrows under your skin so deep it becomes the language you speak to yourself when your own heart tries to map a scrap of self-worth on the gap.
Some jokes land like snowballs.Soft, stupid, melting harmlessly on your shoulders while you laugh and throw one back, no harm in that,The prank where someone fills your drawer with balloons and you genuinely laugh as they burst like tiny thunder and the worst thing you lose is your patience and your favorite pen under the splat,The one where you open a cupboard and fifty tiny rubber ducks cascade out protesting gravity in squeaky chorus,No ghosts in that one, just a silly mess you’ll be finding under furniture by autumn,A kind of chaos that doesn’t leave your nervous system on fire like an alarm you forgot how to stop, just sits there humming, mostly harmless, not ominous.
But then there’s the other kind.The “prank” where they stage an intervention for a problem you don’t actually have,Just to see your face fall, watch your hands tremble, feel the air leave the room while they practice their fake concerned voices and rehearse their half-assed schtick in the staff bathroom on behalfOf “team bonding,” the kind where managers wink like they weren’t the ones signing paychecks for the show,Then scream “APRIL FOOLS” at the exact moment your throat closes and your heart backs itself into a corner, unsure where else it can go.
The night version of this is worse.You’re in bed, phone glowing angry blue on the pillow beside you, reading old chats like crime scene transcripts,Those “lol calm down, you know I was joking” lines undercutting real hurt with the efficiency of dull scissors sawing at fresh stitches and ripped scripts,You scroll past screenshots of people you used to believe, their “haha got you” stamped over memories like threat-level red lipstick,You listen to your ceiling creak, count cracks, wonder how many times you laughed along when you were the accomplice, when you were the one swinging the trick.
There’s a special hell for the “prank” that kicks at open wounds.The fake breakup thrown at someone with abandonment issues already sleeping curled around the idea that everyone leaves,The staged cheating photo waved under the nose of a partner who’s spent years relearning the meaning of trust, only to have the floor ripped out by a “just kidding, you should’ve seen your face” as if that’s something anyone wants to achieve,The fake overdose, the fake car crash text, the fake “I’ve been fired and it’s your fault” gag aimed square in the chest of someone already drowning in guilt so thick they can barely breathe,These aren’t trick candles on a cake, these are matches dropped in a dry forest, followed by open laughter while the trees seethe.
And yet, you can’t pretend every April is only knives.Sometimes your people are the kind who know the difference between a gentle scare and a cut that takes months to cauterize,They rig your coffee mug with a silly message at the bottom—“this is your emotional support caffeine, do not abandon it”—and watch your eyebrows rise,They tape googly eyes on everything in your fridge so your midnight snack run feels like a support group with produce,They swap your ringtone for a ridiculous snippet of your own off-key singing from that one night you were loose,And when your face catches fire in shocked embarrassment they’re right there, grinning, not to mock you but to remind you that being ridiculous in front of them is part of the truce.
The trick, you figure, is this:Who does the joke serve?If it only feeds the ego of the one holding the camera while the subject curls in on themselves like a kicked dog trying not to swerve,If the laugh only travels one direction—outward from the prankster, leaving behind someone smaller, colder, convinced they deserved it because everyone else seemed so sure,Then it’s not a prank, it’s a confession,A serial killer of trust in a party hat,A ritual where empathy is the sacrifice on the floor.
You think back to all the years you swallowed your hurt around this date,Past Aprils blurred into one long string of “nah, it’s fine, I get the joke” even when your stomach clenched so hard you tasted metal on your tongue,You remember the moment you finally looked someone in the eye and said, “that wasn’t funny, that actually messed me up,” and watched their grin deflate, half offended, half young,Like a child caught pulling legs off flies and being told those wings were not props, they were lives strung,You saw the calculation in their stare—whether to double down or back off—and realized most people were never taught how to apologize without adding “you’re too sensitive” to the rung.
This year you hang your own sign.Not public, not a manifesto, just a quiet boundary pinned up in your ribcage where the worst pranks were sworn in,A little message written in permanent marker across your heart:If you wouldn’t say it without the safety of “just kidding,” don’t come here with it tucked under your grin.If your joke needs someone to ache, to panic, to relive their worst night so your endorphins can spin,Take that punchline back to your mirror and see if you still laugh once it’s aimed at your own skin.
April will still come.The fools will still post their gotcha clips and staged tragedies, the world will still pretend this one square of the year is where cruelty gets a discount code,But in your little corner of it, you get to choose who has access to your reactions, who gets the backstage pass to your fight-or-flight mode,You keep your circle small, your tolerance lower, your humor sharp but not built on someone else’s cracked bones,You make room for the jokes that leave everyone standing at the end, a little embarrassed maybe, but still whole in their homes.
And when the first person tries to pull some elaborate stunt that leans hard on your old fear,You give them a look that says, clear as floodlight, “I survived enough punchlines that were actually knives, I don’t need auditions here,”If they back down, maybe there’s hope.If they don’t, if they smirk and say you “can’t take a joke,”You remember that this month was named for fools for a reason.You leave them holding their little fake spider or their fake text or their fake broken glass,And you exit the scene without begging to be treated like a person,Because you are done bleeding for people who think pain is just another prop to pass.