Night Week Death 3
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.
GuNNhead 
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