You can’t tell by listening to me now, but lesser animals trembled when I roared.
I commanded the respect of my elders and the awe of those behind me.
I ran; I leapt from high precipices and flew as safe as a bird.
I seldom ate and I never slept. My body was a marvel.
I did not seek fights, but when they came at me, I dug in my heels,
balled my hands into fists.
Moments later there would be blood on the ground,
my teeth as I’d smile.
Nimble of mind and clever of tongue, I seduced many women,
counseled many chiefs.
Do not mistake that for being verbose or loose-lipped.
I used no more words than necessary to get what I wanted.
And often I had to do no more than speak my own simple name.
Back then, that was enough.
Back then, I didn’t need to brag.
Way back then.
***
Sit in a dark room. But not just dark;
black. No light at all. Use a towel to cover the crack under the door and tack
a blanket over the window. Close your eyes and try to sit still. Fight the
nausea. Fight the pain.
The
fucking pain!
Eat kiwi. Chilled kiwi. Yes, that’s
bullshit advice, but you’ll try anything. OTC meds – also bullshit, but again…
anything. A doctor might prescribe steroids. They don’t help either, but they
will rot your nuts off.
Now.
Here’s the deal. Sit there in the dark, belly full of kiwi and Excedrin, and
think about why your head feels as if it is being torn apart by a Jabberwocky.
No, really. Think about it. What? You
got something better to do; folded over like a sofa bed with your head in your
hands trying to hide from the pain? So, think, what what what is causing this
pain? This goddamned migraine? Is it physical? Is it mental? And would one be
better than the other?
Well
let’s break it down. Say it is physical. What does that mean? An aneurism or a
tumor or maybe a parasite; a toothy worm creeping through the folds, chomping
away at your precious grey matter. Any one of these scenarios would require a
team of highly paid surgeons – and possibly helminthologists – to crack open
your skull and go rooting around with sharp tools – and possibly a can of RAID.
Sounds like fun, no?
Then there’s mental. And how does that
work, exactly? Maybe your very thoughts are so deviant and sinful that God
himself has noticed and decided to blight you with this agony. See, you can’t
hide all those perverted things in your mind from God. He knows what a sick
fuck you are, and you disgust Him. So, enjoy your migraine, asshole. You’ve
earned it the hard way.
***
The initial reaction was to panic. The lump, the red skin. Sore to
the touch, in such a place…. In such an odd place. Paul stood before the mirror
and looked at it for many minutes; his stomach growing cold, sweat beading his
forehead.
Too many minutes passed. Paul fell into sort of a trance.
Stop. Paul
tore his eyes away. I have to get to work.
Underwear came up swiftly; followed by shirt, pants, socks and
shoes. Paul grabbed the keys and was out the door.
The discomfort started when he sat down in the car then grew
through the course of the day. Paul adjusted his walk to accommodate the pain,
affecting a sort of stiff-legged stagger, swinging out the right leg to avoid
friction. He decided just not to walk as much, staying at his desk through
lunch and skipping his afternoon cup of coffee. He upended his disused recycle
bin and propped his foot on it. This helped some, but the pain never left
completely.
Paul found some extra work to do and that kept him at his desk
until very late. Nobody was around to watch him limp from the office and
gingerly set himself in the driver’s seat. It was past nine by the time he got
home. Too exhausted to eat, Paul decided to go right to bed.
He slipped off his pants. There was a discoloration – a rusty
stain – spread across the front of his underwear. The fabric beneath the stain
was dissented by a massive lump. Paul quickly snatched his pajama bottoms and
pulled them on. He didn’t even use the toilette before crawling into bed.
In the morning, Paul woke up dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment