He lay in
his bed. Breathing. Every now and then a faint smell of sweat would linger
under his nostrils, and then flee, just before his mind could trace its origin. Was
it from his shirt? Was it from his blankets? Was it from himself? He couldn't remember the last time he took a bath, or
he last time he washed the sheets or the last time he did the laundry. No,
wait. He took a bath every day. At 12:30 pm, everyday like clockwork, he would
go into his bathroom and take a shower for exactly twelve and a half minutes. He
knew this, he was so bloody damn sure of it, because this was the only
consistent thing in his life. He had been doing it for so long, and he had been
doing it the same exact way, every single time, that it had become second nature
to him. His mind didn’t have to make a single conscious decision when he got
into the shower. He automatically phased out for those twelve and a half
minutes- from the time he turned on the hot water knob and until he got out of
the shower, dripping.
That sweat smell again.
He wasn’t fully asleep. He wasn’t
fully awake. He was in this transient state, like he was getting high from a drug that
hadn’t been invented yet. His senses couldn’t be trusted. His attention moved
to his ears. Don’t ask me why, it just did. Sleeping on his side, his left ear
snugly pressed against his hard pillow felt safe. Secure. His right ear, cold
and exposed. He moved his hand over his head, his skinny arm rested over his
exposed ear, and his palm rested on his head. It might have been six in the
morning. Or nine. Or eleven. Maybe it was three in the morning and maybe it was still
dark outside. HE couldn't even remember when he went to bed last night. His sleep pattern had always been erratic. There were days when
he would go to bed at three in the morning, and then there were days when he
used to wake up at three in the morning. Sometimes it wasn’t breakfast time until
five in the evening. He lived a fucked up life. He knew it.
He was a writer. That’s what he
told people. It had been months since he wrote anything worthwhile. Since he
wrote anything at all. He was talented. That’s what he told himself every day. He
was sure he could belt out scene after scene, line after line, word after word,
without breaking a sweat. All he had to do was to drag his ass to the computer
and let his fingers dance their way around the keyboard. The hardest part of it
all was doing just that.
He would’ve tried to fix things
up, get his life on track, maybe get some writing done if there wasn’t so many things
to be done. There were always things that needed to be done. Clean your room, take
a bath, get dressed, brush your teeth, make your bed, buy groceries, do the laundry,
do the dishes. Fuck. This “living” shit was hard. Most people wake up every day
hoping a raise, hoping not fuck up that day, or hoping to keep their dicks hard
for more than two minutes. Not this guy. Pessimistic
son of a bitch.
He did try to end it all once you
know. Bought a new bade, and tried to slit his wrists. Not because he loathed
himself, or because he was bored of living. Those were true, but that was not
why he wanted to kill himself. He wanted to do it because he “felt like it”. But
before he took such a drastic step, he decided to do some research on suicides.
All that he could fathom out of Google were statistics, and corny websites that
told him why he had to live, and how life was so fucking precious. Morons!
Three hours of sifting through
bullshit, he finally hit gold. Three more hours later, he had a plot for his
new book- the life and times of the most unlucky bastard who tries to kill
himself every five years or so, but fails miserably, thus having to live with chronic
depression, and in a perpetual state of misery. That would make one sad fuck. Quirky,
funny, and if they looked for it, the readers might even find some
philosophical shit. Be grateful for what you have, never take things for
granted, blah, blah, blah. Not that he intends for it to be that way, but
whatever. No publisher who is right in his mind would want to publish it. Not unless
he was just as fucked up as him. To many gory details, almost text bookish instructions
on how to kill yourself right. He even intended to have an eight page sex scene
between the unlucky fuck’s wife and his boss. Like a real sex scene, right out
of a Robert Rodriguez movie or like the ones you see in foreign flicks. None
of that desi crap, like the ones from the semi auto biographical horse shit
that ex-IITain cum ex_IIMite cum ex-investment banker cum pussy faggot writes.
That was two years ago. Nothing’s
changed since then. Except, he doesn’t want to kill himself anymore.
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