Breakdown

"That will be $42.58, sir." The cashier smiled at him cordially and bagged his purchase, setting it on the counter top. He smiled back and handed over the exact amount. The cashier gave him the receipt then bid him good day. 


He took up his purchase and left the store, crossing the parking lot. A car honked at him as he passed in front of it, and he waved apologetically, smiling as one would when trying appease an angry driver. He weaved passed the long rows of cars, dodging rogue shopping carts that were caught by the wind. 


When he made it to the other side, he walked the length of the sidewalk to the bus stop marked with a steel pole and white sign and bright blue waiting bench. An older woman sat to one side, walking cane in her lap along with her large purse and bag of groceries. She saw him coming and smiled at him warmly, not at all disturbed when he came to share the bench with her. 


He sat quietly next to her, waiting for the bus to arrive. When it rolled up next to the sidewalk, he got up, waited for those departing to leave first, then went to board the bus. He stopped just before getting on to glance back at the older woman who too was coming to board the bus. He smiled at her politely and held out his hand. 


At first the woman didn't understand his motives, but he gently grasped her elbow and helped her up the first step. She was then very grateful to him, thanking him as she ascended, paying the ride fee before continuing on. He followed after her, climbing the steps, paying the fee, then walking down the aisle to find himself an empty seat. 


He passed the woman on his way and they nodded to each other. He secluded himself in the back, claiming an entire seat to himself. It took only a moment before the bus started down the street, continuing its route through the city. 


Nearly half an hour must've passed by the time he made it to his stop. The woman had left by then, so there were no little nods of goodbye between them. That was fine, since they were highly unlikely to see each other again. 


He walked down the pavement along the main street. From there, he turned down a residential street and continued on, passing by quiet, modest houses. He smiled at the little homey decorations on some of them, yet continued on without lingering too much before any of the houses. 


Then he came to one with a simply designed driveway and double car garage, one storied with blue roofing, and large welcome mat in front of the door, complete with little wooden welcome sign that hung just below the peephole. 


He checked the little metal mailbox on the corner of the lawn, found nothing inside, and went up to the drive-/walk- way. He went up to the door and chuckled at the welcome sign as he fished out his keys from his jacket pocket. He slotted the keys in and unlocked the door, pushing it open. Just before he went in, though, he took the welcome sign in his hand and with a smile ripped it off, hurling it down the driveway. 


He closed the door behind him and relocked it, then turned to the interior of this quaint little house. Trash could be found all over, papers scattered everywhere, couch cushions thrown on the floor, chairs upturned in the dining room, even a neglected broken glass in the kitchen, half the pieces laying on the counter, the other half strewn about on the tile. 


He still smiled and waded through the mess as if it wasn't there, heading down the hall toward the bedrooms. There was a vase propped on top of a small table in the middle of the hall, and as he passed, he tipped it over, sending it crashing to the ground. The vase broke into countless pieces, spilling water and the flowers that were inside. 


A snicker bubbled in his chest and he kept going, heading straight for the master bedroom. The bag of purchased good were tossed onto the large bed, and automatically, probably from habit, he started to remove his outer layers, shedding off his jacket, nudging off his shoes, removing his accessories and tie. He picked up a remote and turned on the radio.


"And that was 'Beautiful Day' by U2. Next up is the Butthole Surfers with 'Pepper'!" 


Music played through the speakers, first beats, then a voice. "Marky got with Sharon / And Sharon got Sharice / She was sharing Sharon's outlook / On the topic of disease / Mikey had a facial scar / And Bobby was a racist / They were all in love with dyin'..."


He moved around the room, so clean and orderly in comparison to the mess in the rest of the house, and unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged it off his shoulders and tossed it on the bed. Scars from various sources decorated his body like some gruesome, abstract art piece. He was unperturbed by the infinite markings, used to the white lines stretched over his muscles. He sat down on the other side, then dragged the nightstand close. 


He settled the wooden desk between his legs, and taking a marker from the top drawer drew on his palm, working his way up his forearm. They were all constellations, Pegasus, Draco Dragon, Andromeda. He connected the dots, making each one prominent. 


Then he held out his arm, looked at it, and smiled. He nodded in approval. Reaching back, he picked up his purchase and unbagged it. He set the box of pin nails down, then took the staple gun and unlatched the loading cartridge. He loaded the pin nails in and replaced the cartridge. 


On the radio, the song still played. "Then he lost his leg in Dallas / He was dancing with a train / They were all in love with dyin'..."


Plugging the electric staple gun into the wall, he gave a little chuckle and leaned over the nightstand, laying his arm out. He paused to turn up the music of the radio, lightly bopping his head to the beat.


He put the tip of the gun to his skin, grinning, and pulled the trigger, shooting a nail through his flesh. A cry escaped him, pained, yet he laughed afterward, staring at the blood that sprung forth from his wound. The nail stuck out of his hand, like NASA's flag on the moon. He put the gun to his flesh again, and following the dots of the constellations he drew on his skin, pulled the trigger again and again and again. 


Pain flared up his arm and through his shoulder. His muscles protested when he tried to flex his fingers, pulling and screaming at him. Blood oozed from his wounds, smearing and coating his skin. He laughed, his strangled voice louder than the music, as tears spilled from his eyes and down his cheeks. But he paid them no attention. 


He shot himself more than a dozen times from his hand to his elbow, and then a couple more just for the hell of it. The phone rang. He made to get up and answer it, but stopped when he realized he couldn't move. He snickered when he saw that a couple of the nails went through and stuck to the wood of the nightstand.



With difficulty he reached for the remote of the radio and turned down the volume, still laughing, though his breath could hardly keep up. He panted and leaned heavily against the nightstand with his other arm, fist clenching tightly as he gritted his teeth against the pain. 


He felt pale and he shook, his head swimming. Was he starting to lose conscience? The answering machine picked up. "Hello, this is a message for Mr. Svonton McDhoil from the Lukas Pharmacy. Your medicine has come in, so you can pick it up any time. Our hours are from eight A.M. to eight P.M. Thank you, and have a nice day."


He dropped his head on the nightstand, groaning and laughing at the same time. "Hurrah, my drugs came in," he muttered, gripping tightly with his uninjured hand at the corner of the stand. "Fuck... it hurts..."


originally created October 26, 2008