"Complete Control"

    Danny took a deep swig of his Frothingslosh beer and tapped it down onto the sink's rim once, twice, three times.
    "No, no, that didn't feel right," he thought, and walked backwards to his bed once again.
    So far the day wasn't promising. He might as well rewind right back into bed, because if he didn't do it right, he couldn't do it at all. Millions of claws were pushing up and out of his skin, forcing him to get his actions right, and there was an unbalanced cloudiness in his head that pulsated menacingly.
    His foot snagged on a garbage bag full of empty cans...thump! Right onto the floor he landed, breaking into a convulsing tantrum which he promptly tried to overcome. Snorting a wad of mucus back into his sinuses, he swatted at his tears while collecting his body from the bare boards of the floor. Damn it, there was his beer, spilling its frothy amber guts all over the place. Hello gravity, goodbye stamina, he thought.
    Back to the sink he stumbled, watching his reflection in the toothpaste crusted and water stained mirror. If he hadn't known he was looking at a reflection, he would have felt displaced. Seeing himself in front of himself and his surroundings was almost comical, as if he were only a visitor at the cramped apartment on Bare Bank, looking through a backwards peephole at himself and his pathetic lifestyle. He caught sight of his depressing furniture: two wire springs poking out of his naked mattress, and the dog-chewed feet of an old high-backed Victorian. There was no lighting, or any electricity for that matter, and the running water was simply a gift from God. The God of landlords overlooking water bills, that is. The only room in the apartment was the main room, which made him feel like a frog contained in a mason jar. Everything was indistinct, with no division between sections. The bathroom sink was the kitchen sink, the living room was the dining room.
    Catching sight of the empty Frothingslosh can lying on its side, now in the reflection, he heaved a creaking laugh. Dead soldiers, he thought. Pop used to leave his cans where they lay when he was done with them. He would bellow to anyone who tried to throw them away, "My army of dead soldiers in their battlefield," he would growl, "they aint got nothin' left in 'em, and neither do I."
    The shaving cream was cold when he rubbed a double palm-full onto his cheeks, but the chilling distraction was better than reminiscing. He wet the razor and began to slowly scrape upwards.
    Wince.
    Suddenly he felt a sharp twinge and a glimpse of bright red roots growing across  his frothy white expanse of cheek stilled him. The incredibility of how much a tiny nick can bleed is breathtaking. He collapsed once more on to the floor, this time with his hand to his rough cheek and when he brought it away, his stomach caved. The realization that he could take his own life and bleed at will was astonishing to him; his life was of little distraction from the set goals of survival. There were no accidents, no coincidental cuts to speak of. He rarely ever bumped into anyhting being as careful as he was. The rare mishap of stumbling not moments before was simply a misguided faith in his ability to strut backwards in an apartment he thought he knew so well. This sudden revelation was enough to make him dizzy with sickness.
    "This is my life. I'm in control," he whispered.
    His life since the diagnosis had seemed unreal. He recalled the sensation of being underwater that was his emotion every day; every moment of drudgery brought all sounds like baritones through his ears and every attmept to speak was like choking.
    He was free.
    Scrambling off the floor, he bounded out the door and onto the street, shaving cream still cauliflowered on his cheeks and dripping onto his chest.
    "THIS IS MY LIFE AND I'M IN CONTROL!"
    A roaring engine brought him to a startling halt.
    For the third time that day he crashed to the ground.
    This time, he wouldn't be getting up again.