Smith

Gallons.  If you asked Smith how much piss he had inside him, that would be his answer.  Gallons.  Suddenly partially aware of himself, he moved through an unknown hallway, half sprinting and half floating, drawn forward more by his will than his legs.  He rounded a corner then clawed desperately at the steps as he scrambled up a staircase.  At the top he turned right and there was a toilet waiting expectantly, just as he knew there would be, even though he wasn't quite sure he'd ever been there before.  He found himself relieving his full bladder furiously, but when he thought about it, he couldn't recall unzipping himself.  The golden stream attacked the porcelain ceaselessly without any concern for whether or not it wished to receive what it was now receiving.  The water within frothed as it merged with the urine, but its color never changed.  The foaming reminded him of bubble baths from his childhood, and if he had been in the smiling mood, he might have smiled.  He doubled his efforts as the relief he felt entitled to eluded him, and what was once a steady stream was now a raging river spraying unhygienically over the seat and tank.  The bowl was now overflowing onto his feet and he could feel its warmth wash between his toes and the musky scent filled his nostrils.  Still no relief, and his brain screamed.

         If you asked Smith who or what his greatest enemy was, he would probably have lied and said it was his boss or coworkers.  Something or someone tangible and obvious.  And it wouldn't have be a malicious lie.  He wouldn't be saying it just because he didn't want to show weakness or wanted to avoid ridicule.  His coworkers were awful people, and likely deserved the title of enemy number one. And two. And three. And four.  Despicable really.  They included him only as the butt of jokes and pranks, and intentionally made his work life a living hell. It's just that his truest enemy had always been there, waiting for him each new day, and as a result he didn't even consciously recognize it as a threat anymore.  He just faced it matter-of-factly, as one regards eating or breathing or shitting.  His depression was an ever present bitch he struggled with daily.  And some days he beat it, but most days he lost.  Today, he lost.

         The pain in his bladder finally brought him back into himself, and as his eyes cracked open, he stared through haze and a crisscross of eyelashes, hating himself and this damned morning.  He fought to connect those things which must be connected to turn thought into movement, yet every nerve and muscle fiber ignored him. He wasn't quite sure whether or not he'd pissed himself, and while the dream he'd just awoken from had been quite convincing, there were times he'd wake sure that he was missing a tooth or two, yet his teeth remained.  He tried to focus his attention, but the anxiety and dread that accompanied the morning fog was successfully drowning out all other sensations, and whether or not his sheets were soaked, he couldn't really tell.  If the bursting feeling in his bladder was any indication, he was still dry, though he was still completely incapable of removing himself from his bed. 

         Twelve hours prior, he had collapsed into his bed as he does most nights.  Or mornings.  Or whenever it is that he gives in to the exhaustion.  The debilitating mental haze normally burns off after seven to eight hours of waking which leaves him with another twelve to fifteen hours of time that could be considered functional.  This was the period of mild depression in which his best laid plans of suicide were crafted.  He hadn't been successful just yet, but he could feel his time was coming.  He usually attempted to align this time with his work schedule, but failed on a regular basis.  This was likely why he worked at a Chuck-n-Cluck, and even his position there was precarious.  Following this was normally another three to four hours of denial, which consisted of head-bobbing and half-sleep.  He then finally ceded the struggle and collapsed into a coma, teeth unbrushed and face unwashed, to start the process over.  He was currently balls deep in the beginning of this cycle and struggling to cope. 

         There came a point when he thought if he held it back anymore he might pass out.  His head was swimming violently, and what little actual vision he had was gone.  He was completely inside his own mind now.  His pubococcygeus muscle was contracting and relaxing in a rapid-fire fashion, and it felt like he was alternately sucking water in and out of a straw. Only that straw was his penis, and that water was probably ten gallons of urine ready to render his mattress forever unclean.  The inevitability of it all finally washed over him in a calming wave, and he relaxed completely.  He felt the dampness creep down his legs and up his shirt, slowing as it reach right below his nipples.  It reminded him of the time his hot water bladder, the one he used to ease the morning tightness in his lower back, had ruptured and left his whole bed drenched to the box spring.  It was quite exhilarating at first, but the enjoyment faded rapidly.  What was once warm was now chilling quickly and the relief-induced euphoria was evaporating, replaced by the familiar fog.  Yes, the verdict was in, and today would most definitely be counted as a loss.

         Light passed through the blinds and grayed the room, revealing the recently vacuumed carpet and dusted baseboards.  A covered plate rested on his nightstand and there was a glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed, beside it.  Mother must have come in while he was sleeping, and the thought made him feel vulnerable.  He never had a stomach for food this early in the morning, but she brought it daily regardless.  Kind of a waste in his opinion, but it was her little way of saying that he'd slept enough and she expected him to get up and be productive.  Or at least to get up and be minimally conscious.  In any case, she would likely return soon to drag him out of bed, and he didn't think he was quite ready for that sort of commitment just yet.  He was panicking silently when she knocked.

         “Sweetheart?”  Her face led and her body followed as she tiptoed through the door to his bed.  “Good morning.” She spoke softly, since speaking normally could jar him and sometimes had the effect of prolonging his depressive episodes.  The sheets were still damp when she sat, but she didn't recoil when she noticed.  She just rubbed his back gently for several minutes, hoping some physical affection might engage him some. 

         “Okay, sweetie. Let's get you to the shower.”  She had a routine, and it was the only way she knew to get him moving.  She peeled the sheets back, and he started shivering instantly.  She rolled him onto his back, then gripped both ankles and slid them over the side.  She hooked her arms around him and pulled him up into a slumped over sitting position.  Drool ran down the left side of his mouth onto his chin.  She'd get that later. 

         The next stage was critical.  She had to get him on his feet with herself positioned in a way that she could support a considerable portion of his body weight.  This task was undoubtedly made easier by his gaunt frame that had thinned over the course of the last several years.

         “..and up we go.”  His mother pulled him up and swooped under his arm to support him in one practiced, fluid motion.  All he wanted was to continue his wallowing, to revolt violently, to push her away and return to his prone position.  All that actually occurred was a slight flexing of his quads.  This involuntary response only helped his mother who barely had the strength to get him standing on her own.  His legs were fully extended now, and most of his weight was supported by his skeleton.

         “Oh, you did so good, sweetheart.  You are being so brave.  Just give me a little more effort and we'll have you in the shower in no time.”  He envisioned his fist passing through her nose effortlessly and colliding with the back of his skull, turning the rest of her face into a soup-like jelly.  His arm twitched.  He loved his mother.  Truly. But damn if she wasn't stubborn these mornings, and his frustration sometimes manifested itself in unpleasant thoughts.

         “Please.  I'm tired and this hurts and all I want is some sleep.  Leave me alone.”  He meant to speak the words, but all that escaped his lips was a gargled moan accompanied by more spittle. 

         “I know, Smithy. I know.”  She was not to be deterred, and he knew there was no reason to resist.  He would not get his way.  He began shuffling his feet, inching ever closer to the shower.  The progress was infuriatingly slow, but she had nothing but patience for him.  They moved out the doorway, down the hall, and into the bathroom.  He whimpered the whole way.

         Finally, she had him stripped of his piss-soaked clothes and curled in the fetal position in the tub.  Being exposed in front of his mother stopped being an embarrassment ages ago.  The water that issued from the spray nozzle bordered on scalding, but it was the only way she could get him to stop shivering, and in any case he didn't seem to really mind.  She took a seat on the toilet lid and focused her attention on the news coming from a TV she had strapped to the radiator in front of her.  Steam was swirling around her, and as it condensed on the TV screen, it made the image all but discernible. 

         The voice of the news anchor was spouting something about a  mass shooting in an elementary school in Massachusetts, fake concern oozing out of every pore.  Or maybe it was real concern.

         “...rampaged through the hallways....killed everyone he saw indiscriminately...”

Twenty children, five adults, and one killer.  The death toll was staggering, but how was this not just one more tragic cash cow primed for milking? Maybe after all these tragedies they covered, they could still feel the emotions they were documenting.  She thought it was unlikely though.  They probably reveled in these occasions where they could run 24 hour coverage and viewership would remain high. They could double or even triple advertisement revenue with ease.

         “...barricaded themselves in rooms...others found no refuge..”

         They would interview the mothers and fathers and siblings,  and the tears the family membes would cry would be real, giving their job some semblance of nobility.  They were spreading the story of the unjustly stricken, letting the rest of the world know their pain. She couldn't help but think they were taking advantage.  And when those interviews grew old, they'd have psychologists analyze and reanalyze the killer's  psyche, and people would watch for hours fascinated.  What drove him to finally snap, to commit the act that many other slightly less mentally ill dreamed about but never quite committed?

         “...ended in a standoff with a SWAT team...took his own life.”

Was it his parents fault?  Bullying in school?  Drug use? A failed relationship?  Why did it always seem to be a young adult white male? She looked at her son and wondered if this sort of act was inside him.  No, she told herself.  He would never.

         “..a vigil this evening at the school. All are welcome to attend.”  Finally, the coverage of the massacre took a brief hiatus to allow time for commercials.  Time to pay the bills.

         She uncapped several bottles and piled his daily ration of medication on the counter.  Propranolol 160mg.  Aplenzin 522mg.  Pristiq 200mg. A variety of vitamin supplements.  It was right around now that if he didn't get the antidepressants in his system, he'd begin to display withdrawal symptoms, the most pronounced of which was vertigo accompanied by nausea.  Uncomfortable to witness.  More uncomfortable to experience.  She sat him up and coaxed him to swallow his meds, and he did with little fuss.  Now she just had to play the waiting game.  Watch the TV and wait.

         They were now interviewing the killer's 4th grade teacher, a shriveled prune of a lady who judging by her voice had smoked a pack or two too many. 

         “He was always a bit odd.  An outsider I'd say.  Oh yes, he was very intelligent.  Particularly good at the mathematics, but getting a full sentence out of him was a struggle.  Communication was never his strong suite, and I guess I always just thought he was going to be a late bloomer.  It's a shame really.  I think he was just a misunderstood boy who never found his place,” the woman croaked. 

         Smith's mother let her thoughts wander, and they drifted to his childhood.  He had a happy childhood, didn't he? He had friends and he used to never shut up.  Well-rounded and well-liked. Athletic and attractive. What happened?  Mental illness didn't run in her side of the family, but she knew pretty much nothing about his father's side.  She closed her eyes, and put it out of her mind like she always does when these thoughts start to creep in.  It was what it was, and why waste your time on feeling sorry for someone who doesn't want the pity.  She drifted deeper and deeper and was snoring loudly when Smith finally came out of his haze.

         She awoke to the sound of the shower cutting off and instinctively put on her smile.

         “Good morning, honey.”  She learned a long time ago not to ask him how he was doing.  She knew how he was doing, and the question irritated him.

         “Morning,” Smith replied.  He stepped out of the shower, already dried off with a towel wrapped around his waist.  He leaned in and pecked his mother on the cheek, then continued out of the bathroom to dress for work.  The TV was still playing in the background.          

         “Breaking news...large scale attack on Chinese State Council....rumors circulating that paramount leader killed...suspected use of biological agents...some Chinese officials blaming the US...”  Looks like the killer in Massachusetts won't get his 15 minutes after all.  She turned off the TV having had her fill of drama for the day, and as she flicked off the light and walked out, she couldn't help but feel like the whole world and everyone in it was going to burn.