Night Week Death 2
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.
GuNNhead 
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