GuNNhead

He awoke in the morning, drenched in sweat. He was merely relieved that he had not soiled himself in any way during the night. His body felt unharmed, though completely numb. What kind of brain disorder do I have that could have done that to me? Maybe it was just a dream, something I ate. It did taste sort of off…

Then the thoughts returned, and he hated life all over again, forever.

Before he knew it, the day was done for, and he was out, at a party. His wife was with him, along with all his friends. He was drinking heavily enough to block out the thoughts. He was his old self, laughing, enjoying company, and, generally, it seemed to him, having a good time. A fun Friday night with the people who made him, the old him, who he was.

He awoke in the morning beside his wife, with the unmistakable feeling that everyone hated him. That they were mad at him, and there would be repercussions. He had done or said some horrible things. After a quiet morning around the house, they went out to get some supplies for the small get together they were having for their closest friend-couple, and maybe one or two good friends. During the day, picking up snacks, he turned to his wife, to address his thoughts of the night before.

“So, how do you think last night went? I got pretty drunk; don’t remember the end.”
“Everything was great. Everyone had a lot of fun, I was actually glad to see you enjoying yourself.” She smiled.
“I didn’t do or say anything?”
“Well, I wasn’t with you every second, but nobody said anything to me, and saying bye, nothing was awkward, but I had a few drinks too, so I might have not noticed.”
“Oh, okay.” He wanted to feel reassured, but still couldn’t shake the feeling. He dropped the conversation, and focused on what snacks he’d like. Oh well, he thought, if anything did happen, as bad as his thoughts were saying, I’ll find out eventually.

That night, things were once again going well. His closest friends, his house, his wife. Things should have felt complete, but he felt disconnected. Like it wasn’t for him. If it wasn’t for him. Not towards, but it all. It was gone while it was happening before his eyes. He hated them, his thoughts, only of their death, beyond his control. Murder… out of the question, there was no point to it. He sat, and watched them enjoying themselves, as he used to do, living life. His thoughts spun within his mind, leading to no conclusions. His thoughts were seeing them, strung up, drained out, eviscerated. No matter how he envisioned their bodies, it led to no pacification. Eviscerated, torn open, blood everywhere. They were still there. Reality struck. There, it seemed, was nothing he could do while maintaining himself. Just kick them out? They’ll still exist, I’ll still exist. Death is too extreme, but still a step behind of what is required.

They noticed him. He left, went to the bedroom, to listen to music, to lie down. His thoughts remained, their voices, grating over his every thought. What to do? Soon, (it felt too soon), he rejoined them, and continued in what was normal, expected of him because they were doing it, drinking, laughing. It was all hollow, outside of him, he took nothing within him, for it was full of emptiness, just the thoughts, these thoughts that will not leave, these pathetic, ghostly thoughts of pointless hate. He hated everything as much as he hated these thoughts, but they were all he truly had, because they were the only things within him. The external is so fleeting, even more pointless than a thought; actions, the extension of pointlessness, driven to its utmost.

He drank enough so that he could not remember anything beyond that point, and awoke on Sunday afternoon, alone. His wife had left again, another series of meetings. What will they lead to? What will anything lead to? Nothing.

He busied his time with a few more drinks, a shot or two of rum, another beer or few. Then he was out, dry. Watched movies of old, read a book, took a nap, read some more. It was all empty time wasting. There was no purpose to anything, his thoughts saw to that.

That night, the final night, he tried to sleep, but it would not take him. He listened to more music, but grew tired of it. He stayed in bed, covered with sheets, staring at the ceiling. By 3AM, he was asleep, but the TV turned on, though he could not move to deal with it. The dizzy spell had returned. No: it never really left. His head erupted with pain again, charged in full, expanding out of the confines of his limited, physical skull. A pain never before felt, the pain, so extreme, electric, burning out everything else around him. He closed his eyes, but could still see it all. He was dragged out of bed, onto the floor, toward the door.

He woke up. 4AM. The pain was still searing, he tried to stand, get dressed again; shut off that damn TV. He stumbled into his pants, his shirt, and toward the door. The pain was galvanizing these new thoughts, destroying his old self for the last time. He fell, and hit the floor in the hallway, clutching his temples.

He woke up. 5AM. In his bed. His clothes, where they were before he put them on. It was just a dream. All a dream, he thought. The TV was off. Monday, my head is fine. But it wasn’t, the pain, the thoughts, playing their games one last time. He stood, but immediately doubled over, the electricity stronger than ever, frying all that he was and anything he could ever be. Dragged towards oblivion.

He never saw his love or his friends again, though they were there.

On Thursday morning, he awoke with the sun in his eyes, it felt warm, and he hated it. He was on the couch in the living room. Maybe my headache is gone? No such luck. Why am I on the couch? He got up to go to the bedroom, but on the way there, the alarm went off.

“Hey you,” she said to him, wiping the sleep out of her eyes, “how are you doing today?” He stood in the doorway.
“Same, do you know why I was on the couch?”
“You were on the couch? Since when?”
“I guess. I don’t know. Weird.”
“Yeah, you want some breakfast, maybe?”
“That sounds nice.”

Out of the confusion and into the night, dinner time came round again, and it was his favorite: general tao. There’s a little place down the street that makes it perfect every time, his wife knew it would pick him up. True to form, it was perfect. But to him, trapped behind a veil of thoughts, it was simply food. He’d been enjoying it less and less all week, like everything else in life.

She had to be out-of-town tonight, a business meeting early in the morning and most of the night, in the next town over. She’d bought the food, and left it there in the kitchen for him, just before he was able to get home, with a little card. On the card, a hand drawn heart. When he saw it, something sparked in his brain, but was quickly extinguished and forgotten. He wished he remembered what it was, but for the life of him could not remember why. So there he sat, hunched over the styrofoam container, eating in a darkened, quiet living room. The card, tossed haphazardly aside on the kitchen counter.

He was consumed in these thoughts that he hated. Why won’t they stop? He tried to think of all the amazing things in his life, but the thoughts made him abhor those, too. And so, he simply listened to his thoughts, hating them. When he had finished eating, feeling only like he had done what is required of him; without feeling satisfied, full, or hungry. He left the trash on the table, and turned on the TV. It was his show again! The one from younger times. This time it was not the same, however, for his eyes as well had begun to not listen to him. They shook, quivering and distorting the world around him without purpose.

His equilibrium felt… off, as if he was not sitting where he was. He felt around with his hands on the couch, to make sure, and could only be disappointed at his sensory intake of reality. It was all still intact but himself. It was not the world that was the problem, but his mind that was the problem, no matter what it told him of the opposite.

Soon though, he was able to regain control over his doors of perception. He liked to imagine that it was his old brain that did it. He, then, automatically, hated everything about life again, and, having noticed it was past midnight, decided that he should go to sleep. His head still hurt, but medication would probably only make things worse. Why fill yourself up with pointless medication, chemicals to alter the body and mind? He had work in the morning, after all.

But as he thought to stand up, an electroshock of pain ran through his brain, pushing against the inside of his skull, trying to escape, to break open his skull. He clutched his head, fell on his side, then off the couch. On his chest, hands still clasped around his exploding, electrocuting brain, grinding it against the carpeted floor, he felt himself being dragged backwards by his feet towards the bedroom. He was sweating, burning up with fever. He was lifted with the greatest of ease and slammed into the walls unexpectedly, repeatedly, but could not go limp, think of what to do, or fight back in any way, the pain inside of his head was too great.

He loved life. The sun was shining, and felt warm on his face. Not that it wasn’t already, but today was looking to be a great day, as always, for him. It was only Monday morning, and he felt the positive energy flowing deep inside himself, and all around him.

Day, however, bleeds into the night as blood flows from arteries exploded open. This night, for this man, would lead to an internal death to which no eternal slumber can compare.

His night, as they always do, began in the evening.

“Is something wrong?” Asked his loving wife of two years.
“No, why?”
“Well, you’ve been acting almost… irritated, agitated, if I had to give it a word.”
“Huh, nope, not at all, feel fine, like I always do.” He paused to reflect upon his actions, minor as though they may be. “At least, I think I do.”

She always could pick out the little things in life, that’s one of the reasons he loved her so much. She found details, and he enjoyed them, the whole process was always magical.

It was just before dinner on Tuesday night when he noticed little grand thoughts in his head that were never there before. This is stupid, irrelevant, and boring, they said as he watched the news. He was interested in hearing about the extinguished 6-alarm fire in the government building downtown, near enough to where he worked, but surfed the channels anyway. This only made his thoughts angrier, more irritated. But he didn’t know what to do. Luckily, he soon found one of his favorite shows on from when he was a little younger. The nostalgia helped to drown out the thoughts, slow them down, distract them, make them fewer and far between.

But not stop them.
He felt a bit listless the rest of the night, and told his wife he just felt tired. He managed to play his old self fairly well.

It was on Wednesday night after dinner that his new thoughts had began to give him a headache. Well, not his new thoughts exactly, but him, trying to force his old thoughts to happen again, the ones of joy, the vibrant, joyful thoughts, making them fight, compete. The new ones, the violent, cruel ones, the vexed, hateful ones, the ones against life (in particular, his own life, but also those of the faceless bodies that fill the streets), won. Once it got late enough, he took some headache medication, and talked to his wife.

“Hey, honey, do you ever have thoughts that you think you can’t avoid?”
“How do you mean?”
“I dunno, like, ones that make you feel depressed?”
“Of course, everyone gets those kinds of thoughts every now and again.”
“What do you do to stop them?”
“Hell, well, lots of things, I guess, you could listen to a happy song, or even whistle or hum it; make a list of all the things good in your life–”
“I don’t think that–”
“Ooh, one thing I did that really helped, during this particularly bad time in my life, before I met you, I listened to some self-help recordings, I know hypnosis doesn’t really work, and know it’s pretty silly now, but it helped me during that time, to change my frame of mind.”

He thought of a million ways to dismiss her ideas, he knew they weren’t talking about the same thing. He no longer knew why he asked her for advice. He wanted to tell her his thoughts, explain them to her, but he couldn’t even explain them to himself. And he didn’t want to frighten her the way that his thoughts oftentimes frightened him. They’re eating away at his personality.

“Thanks,” he said with an honest smile applied to his face; she tried her best. She smiled back, and looked at him with her gorgeous and soulful emerald eyes. He could feel her love for him in those eyes, and in his heart, but not his mind. In his mind, there was only darkness and pain. He grabbed at his temples.

“I have a headache, babe, I think I’m just gunna head to bed.”
“Alright, feel better, I’ll probably join you when this show is done.”
Shortly, she came and gave him a kiss, then crawled into bed beside him. He rolled over and spooned with her, held her tight in his arms, and for the final moments before he slept, thought that he felt love in his mind once more.