Shockwave

“Shockwave” — A Dramatic Monologue

Shockwave”—a raw, intense moment spoken by a character in the aftermath of a traumatic, life-altering event.

You ever hear the sound before the explosion?

No, not the bang. Not the fireball. I mean that… silence. That split-second when the world holds its breath. That’s the real shockwave. Not the blast. Not the debris. Not even the screaming. It’s the pause. The moment where everything knows what’s coming… and no one can stop it.

I stood there. One foot on the pavement, the other halfway into the street. Coffee still warm in my hand. I was looking at my phone. A stupid meme. I don’t even remember what it was now—something about cats. And then… it hit.

Not the bomb. Not yet. Just that silence. Everything slowed down. Birds stopped mid-flight. Wind stopped blowing. And my heart… I swear to God, I could feel it trying to punch through my chest.

Then came the fire.

The building across from me just… folded in on itself. Windows shattered like falling stars. A man—he was just walking. Just walking, like me. He disappeared. One moment he was there, the next… gone. Smoke swallowed him whole.

I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I froze.

They say fight or flight. No one ever talks about freeze. No one tells you that sometimes your brain short-circuits and all your instincts—those millions of years of evolution—just fail. And there you are. Useless. Helpless. Watching everything you love burn.

I still smell the dust. It’s in my clothes, my skin, my lungs. I wake up coughing, choking, drowning in it. You think it fades, but it doesn’t. It follows you. Lurks behind your eyelids. Waits in the corners of empty rooms.

She was upstairs. Emma. Our daughter. Three years old. Blonde curls. Eyes like melted chocolate. She was singing when I left—off-key, nonsense lyrics, but God, she was happy.

And now—

No. I don’t get to cry. Not yet. Crying means it’s real. Crying means I accept it. And I can’t. I won’t.

People say “move on.” Like there’s a next level. Like this is some video game you can restart. They don’t understand. A part of me died in that blast. The best part. The part that believed in soft mornings and bedtime stories and small hands gripping my finger.

What’s left now?

This. A hollow thing wearing my face. A man who smiles so no one asks questions. A heart ticking like a bomb, waiting for the next silence. The next pause. The next shockwave.

And when it comes—I’ll be ready.

Or maybe I won’t.

But at least this time, I’ll hear it coming.

Not the bang. Not the fireball. I mean that silence. That split-second where the world just… freezes. Holds its breath like even the air is afraid to move. That’s the real shockwave. Not the blast. Not the screaming. It’s the pause before all hell lets loose—the moment you realize everything’s about to change and there’s nothing, nothing, you can do about it.