shit show ⋆ bo burnham

00.

PROLOGUE.

not only had it happened once too many times, but this time had to have been the fracture of any willingness bo had left to relinquish.

he was doing what he cherished — what he had always dreamt deeply about. telling bold and interpersonal jokes to like-minded individuals, successfully, and being able to survive off it as an income. his creative leeway opened an entire world of possibilities and opportunities. never once had bo had the thought of stopping. not until today.

mid-reel, in the middle of a song, it hit him abruptly and unforgivingly in front of hundreds of famished eyes. he knew it was coming by the subtle blur in his corneas, a swift crescendo of ringing in his ears, and the sudden belligerent pounding against his ribcage — as if his heart was suffocating in it's rightful position, pleading to evict itself from it's host.

it was humiliating, these attacks. he felt as though he was going to perish before the very crowd that continued to laugh and guffaw, under the impression that this sudden panic was just a part of his performance. do they really think he's joking?

he could see it now — the obituary. bo burnham died doing what he loved. literally. he died mid-song. art really is dead now.

he couldn't remember much due to the gradual imbalance of oxygen and carbon dioxide in his system. he felt faint, and suffocated. bo remembered suddenly being to the side of the stage, then ushered behind it by stage crew, where he slid down a wall and to the cold, cement floor.

tears welled in the brims of his eyes involuntarily, eventually streaming down his flushed cheeks. the sharp, desperate gasps were like grasping for straws, except there were never any straws, and there was nothing else to grasp onto. even after an oxygen mask had been hastily placed around his nose and mouth by staff, he continuously heaved for air.

"i can't— i need—" anxiety continuously pooled around his lungs as he realized they no longer felt like they were expanding, and it wasn't much longer before his vision threatened to  blacken. he couldn't help the petrified tears that rivered down his face. nothing else mattered at this point; no one else existed, he had no other plans or responsibilities. bo's sole purpose was to just consume air. and he couldn't even fucking do that.

"bo, remember what we talked about. hey — look at me." a sudden gentle and familiar voice reigned above the sound of a perplexed sea of people on the other side of the stage, and bo fought to peer past heavy eyelids and blurred vision to see her.

y / n kneeled between his legs, a calm but concerned demeanor projected along her otherwise familiar features. perhaps, in this state, he would allow one other person to exist.

"i have to— to stop." a piercing and desperate inhale broke up his faint words while his trembling hand was taken entirely by his girlfriend's. "the show, i can't."

"shh. down, in, out, up. one, two, three, four." she ignored his irrational concern and instead guided his hand through a series of simple movements — the same movements a conductor would utilize to keep an ensemble or band in a slow tempo of four/four time. a human metronome. this repetitive gesture gave him something out of the millions of nothings to focus solely on, grounding him during his state of otherwise uncontrollable panic.

every time he'd land on down, she instructed him to either take a breath in or out, and they sat there for what felt like hours keeping a steady and slow tempo until bo could eventually repossess a bit of composure. everything still ached, he was still very warm, and his breathing continued to hitch every few seconds, but it was a much more desirable state.

"i really fucked it," bo muttered eventually, the guilt of ruining an entire crowd's night beginning to weigh heavily on him. they paid and travelled just to watch him have a pathetic episode on stage. "this is a shit show."

"no, bo. look, i have water, you need to hydrate. here—"

bo didn't even glance at the water; he just wanted this to stop. "i don't think i can handle this anymore."

"i'm going to take you to the hospital. this is happening to you too often."

"no. no, do not—"

"bo, please. for me, will you have some water? you need to stay—"

incontrollable impulse and overstimulation in his current state brought bo to slap the water bottle directly out of her hands, mindlessly and aggressively, and suddenly everything was finally silent all at once. the only sound that occupied his ears was the water bottle rolling increasingly further away from them. his chest still rose and fell with urgency while he tore the oxygen mask off his face.

"i told you i can't fucking handle this right now!" bo's eyes stung with the tears he desperately attempted to hold in; he didn't even want to cry, but his body wasn't giving him a choice. nothing about him was functioning properly. he could see the cocktail of emotions mix in his significant other's face, and the hurt she portrayed stung even worse than his eyes. bo immediately stomached regret.

"baby, i'm— look, i'm sorry. i just really can't do this. any of this. the shows, the crowds . . . you. i don't want a doctor, i don't want anything."

"what are you saying?"

"i really do not know how else i can word it right now. please, just leave me alone."

a discerned exhale emitted past her lips as she slowly pushed herself away from bo, who was digging his palms into his eye sockets. the
comedian refused to look at her.

"i was only trying to help you, bo."

"well, stop."

another foreignly silent moment surpassed before her tone echoed into his ears.

"i really hope you figure things out," the quiver in her voice was apparent, and it nearly sent him spiraling back into the breathless misery he had just barely escaped from. bo remained silent, despite knowing exactly what she was doing. he couldn't bring himself to object. "it'll be easier now. you won't have to deal with me any longer."