Curling around the toilet above the surface of the bathroom floor, Benny sits on the ceramic tiles. A hand effortlessly drapes around the toilet seat, while the other extends out to grip a bottle of whiskey. His clumpy brown hair falls into his face, messy and slovenly unmade. A smudged shirt and faded jeans, both from last night's lonely escapade, clothe his body. Dark, heavy shadows outline eyes that appear shallow and blank; they distract one from the apparent stubble upon his cheeks.
Once upon a time, many years ago, Benny used to be a handsome man. But that was in his youth, when his eyes held a doe's innocence and a child's ignorance. Ages of ingested poison and accumulated agonies had reduced him to a middle-aged man who nursed his toilet every evening.
He combs his hair back with a flick of his free hand and thinks to himself. It had been a long time since he'd caressed a woman's thigh or felt the warmth of someone next to him. Had it really been so long? he wonders.
He'd been married once, fresh out of college and oblivious to the harsh realities of living independently. Who was he kidding; he was never ready for what would come his way. All of his life Benny was taught work hard and you'll get far. He'd done exactly that, aced his exams throughout high school and went on to receive a degree in mathematics and engineering. It never mattered. Jobs ran out, and with them, money did as well. His wife, a skinny little thing, couldn't handle the stress and one day, he found her in bed with another. Another woman.
Benny heaves into the toilet, spilling the contents of his already empty stomach once more. He thinks to himself what a pitiful mess he must look, and cannot help but to smile. Bile runs down his stained shirt and with a sloppy expression on his face, he bellows out laughter within his small bathroom. The sound, poignant and strained, stings his ears, but he doesn't care. Loud and fierce, he chortles with laughter, regardless of the stench emitted by the vomit.
Eventually, Benny's laughter dies away and silence fills the room. His disheveled, shaking body brightens; his eyes bulge and deepen with redness. His fingers connect to his temples, attempting to relieve the pressure within his skull.
And he cries.
He cries for the youth he let slip away as he slaved over coursework to get that scholarship. He cries for the mother who watched her son fall to pieces with every bottle of liquor ingested. He cries for himself, a thirty-year-old man sobbing on cold porcelain.
He sobs and after a while with his scratchy throat aching for water. Benny pulls the bottle of whiskey to his lips and swallows the strong liquid. It doesn't quench his thirst, however. That was never his intention, because all he desired was a little numbification for the mental pain inside his brain. Whilst he contemplates his existence, a knock sounds at the door. Benny doesn't comprehend the opening doors, nor of the proceeding footsteps that follow.
When the bathroom door is jerked open, a male figure, lanky and tattooed, appears and surveys the sight before him with a look of anguish on his face. Benny doesn't pay any attention to the intruder.
"Aw shit, Benny. Please tell me you didn't. Oh God, no." He looks to the counter where an object lay, previously unnoticed to him. A pill bottle, empty of its contents. The man, presumably Benny's friend, continues with a panicked expression, "What the hell am I gonna do?"
He lets out a series of curses. "Should've just stayed home, mindin' my own business. What the hell am I gonna do with you?"
Benny remains silent.
"Gotta call the police, of course. Yeah, that's what I'll do," he murmured to himself, before running off. He never comes back, and when the ambulance arrives some time later, the paramedics find Benny's sickly looking body wrapped around the toilet, his eyes lidded and his breath shallow.
His mind is consumed by this vague darkness filled by emptiness; he just wants to feel whole again. He's a missing piece out of a puzzle that can't be solved. He feels the icky, poison of his mind closing over his consciousness and he can hardly breathe. His lungs are constricted and his heart feels so bled out and torn away. He just wants that feeling of wholesomeness back again.
The paramedics, all in vain, try and steal his utopia away. They shock him with electricity through his chest and attempt to revive his body. Useless.
Once upon a time, many years ago, Benny used to be a handsome man. But that was in his youth, when his eyes held a doe's innocence and a child's ignorance. Ages of ingested poison and accumulated agonies had reduced him to a middle-aged man who nursed his toilet every evening.
He combs his hair back with a flick of his free hand and thinks to himself. It had been a long time since he'd caressed a woman's thigh or felt the warmth of someone next to him. Had it really been so long? he wonders.
He'd been married once, fresh out of college and oblivious to the harsh realities of living independently. Who was he kidding; he was never ready for what would come his way. All of his life Benny was taught work hard and you'll get far. He'd done exactly that, aced his exams throughout high school and went on to receive a degree in mathematics and engineering. It never mattered. Jobs ran out, and with them, money did as well. His wife, a skinny little thing, couldn't handle the stress and one day, he found her in bed with another. Another woman.
Benny heaves into the toilet, spilling the contents of his already empty stomach once more. He thinks to himself what a pitiful mess he must look, and cannot help but to smile. Bile runs down his stained shirt and with a sloppy expression on his face, he bellows out laughter within his small bathroom. The sound, poignant and strained, stings his ears, but he doesn't care. Loud and fierce, he chortles with laughter, regardless of the stench emitted by the vomit.
Eventually, Benny's laughter dies away and silence fills the room. His disheveled, shaking body brightens; his eyes bulge and deepen with redness. His fingers connect to his temples, attempting to relieve the pressure within his skull.
And he cries.
He cries for the youth he let slip away as he slaved over coursework to get that scholarship. He cries for the mother who watched her son fall to pieces with every bottle of liquor ingested. He cries for himself, a thirty-year-old man sobbing on cold porcelain.
He sobs and after a while with his scratchy throat aching for water. Benny pulls the bottle of whiskey to his lips and swallows the strong liquid. It doesn't quench his thirst, however. That was never his intention, because all he desired was a little numbification for the mental pain inside his brain. Whilst he contemplates his existence, a knock sounds at the door. Benny doesn't comprehend the opening doors, nor of the proceeding footsteps that follow.
When the bathroom door is jerked open, a male figure, lanky and tattooed, appears and surveys the sight before him with a look of anguish on his face. Benny doesn't pay any attention to the intruder.
"Aw shit, Benny. Please tell me you didn't. Oh God, no." He looks to the counter where an object lay, previously unnoticed to him. A pill bottle, empty of its contents. The man, presumably Benny's friend, continues with a panicked expression, "What the hell am I gonna do?"
He lets out a series of curses. "Should've just stayed home, mindin' my own business. What the hell am I gonna do with you?"
Benny remains silent.
"Gotta call the police, of course. Yeah, that's what I'll do," he murmured to himself, before running off. He never comes back, and when the ambulance arrives some time later, the paramedics find Benny's sickly looking body wrapped around the toilet, his eyes lidded and his breath shallow.
His mind is consumed by this vague darkness filled by emptiness; he just wants to feel whole again. He's a missing piece out of a puzzle that can't be solved. He feels the icky, poison of his mind closing over his consciousness and he can hardly breathe. His lungs are constricted and his heart feels so bled out and torn away. He just wants that feeling of wholesomeness back again.
The paramedics, all in vain, try and steal his utopia away. They shock him with electricity through his chest and attempt to revive his body. Useless.
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