Charlie Kirk’s Widow

Scene One – The Funeral

Lights up on a giant, smiling family portrait projected or mounted above the stage: Charlie Kirk, the Widow, and their children, posed in immaculate happiness. Beneath the portrait: a coffin draped in flags and flowers. Mourners stand in shadows around it.

The Widow, veiled in black lace, throws herself across the coffin, sobbing and clawing at it.

Widow

Oh Charlie! My one, my only! Take me with you!

How can I go on? How can I live without you?

Community members in somber black gather her gently, murmuring:

Community (murmurs)

She’s so devoted. So tragic.

They peel her off the coffin and guide her out as she thrashes. Lights fade.

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Scene Two – The Bedroom

Lights up on a lavish bedroom. Funeral flower arrangements crowd the corners. An enormous bed dominates the space. The Widow enters in silk pajamas, veil tossed aside. She collapses onto the bed in a giant X, bouncing like a child. She squeals, giggles, kicks her legs, dribbling laughter. After a long moment, she snatches up the phone, breathless.

Widow (into phone)

Hey, sweetie… yeah, I’m okay. Actually, I’m more than okay.

Listen — bring the girls. I had them send the whole funeral spread over here. It looks amazing. Mountains of food. Tons of wine. We’ll do it here.

She tosses the phone down, flops back on the bed, squealing with glee. Lights fade.

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Scene Three – The Feast

The bedroom is transformed. Funeral trays line a dresser and table: meats, cheeses, casseroles, cakes, bottles of wine. Candles glow warmly. The Widow, radiant now in a glittering robe over her pajamas, veil perched like a crown, plays hostess. Her three closest friends enter, glamorous Republican wives still in black dresses, shoes dangling from their hands. They settle on the bed with plates, sipping wine softly.

Friend 1

Do you want us to help with the kids this week? We can take turns.

Widow

No… I’ve got that handled. Honestly, I don’t have to worry about that part for the rest of my life. Thank God.

Friend 2

What about meals? Do you want us to bring food? Stock the fridge?

Widow

I don’t know. I’m just… I’m reeling.

Friend 3

Honey, would it help if we spoke candidly with you? Or should we just sit here like this?

Widow

Yes. Speak candidly. Please. I’ve been working so hard to be what I’m supposed to be. But I need honesty.

Silence. Then Friend 1 leans forward, beautiful and sharp.

Friend 1

Maybe the first time I wanted to kill that sack of shit was at your wedding. He tried to fuck me in the closet. Your own wedding. I wanted to murder him right there.

The Widow nods. Not surprised — already knowing.

Friend 2

My turn. I kept hearing it at his political gatherings. Charlie leaving with some 18-year-old. Everyone knew. Everyone whispered.

I never told you because I didn’t want to shame you… but it was his reputation.

The Widow nods again, slowly. They hug, strong and complicit. She straightens, takes a long sip of wine.

Widow

He used to make me read Psalms. He’d stand there and watch while I read out loud. Then he’d tell me, “If you’re going to be a good girl, a good wife, you need to be more obedient.”

One day I read a line: “If you are a sinner, your arms will be broken.”

That’s when he grabbed me. Pulled my arms behind my back until I thought they’d snap.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to scream. So I didn’t.

After that… it became a thing. Many afternoons. I’d read. And not infrequently, he hurt me.

The friends are silent. One by one, they rest their hands on her knee. Not in pity, but recognition.

Friend 3

Billy isn’t much different. He doesn’t use Psalms. He ties my wrists to the bedframe when I talk back. Calls it “correcting the spirit.” Says if I thrash, it means Satan’s still in me. The church ladies just smile, like it’s normal.

Silence again. Then the Widow sets down her glass with a clink.

Widow

Thank God he’s gone. Thank God I’m free. Thank God me and the kids are safe.

Friend 1 (quietly)

Yeah…

Friend 3 (half-smile)

Think you’ll remarry?

The Widow bursts into sudden, sharp laughter.

Widow

Hell no. Are you kidding? I’ve been on TikTok. I’ve been reading this woman, Jodi Schiller. And she’s right — it’s not just the men, it’s marriage. I’m never getting married again. Not ever.

I’ll be the most devoted grieving widow for the rest of my fucking life. You think I’d sign up for this insanity again? To marry these fucks?

The women stare a beat, then crack into laughter with her.

Friend 2 (raising her glass)

I wish mine could be assassinated.

Friend 1 (clinking glasses)

I’d drink to that.

They clink glasses. Laughter builds, louder, freer, decadent, until it fills the stage.

Blackout.

Download “Charlie Kirks Widow”

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