Chapter 38: The Insanity of Humanity

"You should be happy." Mike was lying on his bed, staring at his ceiling. The sunlight, almost tauntingly, poured through his window; the day, despite his distraught demeanor, went on as though he were a mere Specter. Life seemed to constantly remind him of his insignificance; it always took great care in making him know he was nothing more than an invisible cog in the great machine known as purpose and plan. A small bug to an entity such as the Universe, and like all others – although no other to more an extent – he sat in the palm of God, his life in constant question.

"I really am ungrateful. Here I am, lucky enough to get a free pass – an excuse to die. I don't have to suffer… or at least not as long as everyone else. Shouldn't I be happy?" Mike sat up in his bed and looked around.

"It's not that bad, right? I mean, to do anything in life you have to suffer; to get anywhere you have to work and try. I'm tired of trying!" His voice was low enough so no one would hear him, but still he managed to show excitement – even if it was only for his own gratification. He got off of his bed and walked over to his window. "Heh, look at that insipid little hole. All the unlucky bastards." He almost laughed to himself. "Maybe I should pity them. They're stuck here. Stuck with society; stuck with pain; and stuck with…misery. God, if only they knew." He chuckled and placed his forehead on the glass. "If only they could see the light."

Mike could feel his smile slowly fade. He watched as his breath fogged up the glass, blurring the world before him. He turned his head slowly, and then lifted it off. "I'm such an idiot." He continued to speak aloud to himself. "Such a worthless excuse of a person, such a waste. I hate myself, this world, this room, this situation, the irony - I hate it all!" He swung his arm in front of him as if he were swatting away flies - flies ready to feed upon his decomposing flesh. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, and then he started to caress his temples.

"I don't know what to do. What do I do? What do I do? What do I fucking do?" Both his hands flew forward in a fit of rage, and he stared at his fist. It seemed so peculiar how he could squash a bug, break a mirror, or kill a person… and all with his fist; yet, the flesh that was its composition – it was so meek and fleeting. It was doomed to die a death of insignificance.

"How will I tell them? It was so hard the first time." Mike sat down on his bed and rested his head in his hands. "I'm so tired of this. I just want to go to sleep. I want to wake up and for everything to be over with. I want to go back to my biggest problems being schoolwork and dealing with my sister and I just want to be like everyone else. I don't want to die of cancer; I don't want to live in pain; and I don't want this. Is that so much?" Mike let his body fall sideways. He picked his legs up off the ground and he laid there. "Maybe it is. This is all life is, isn't it? Pain, stress, agony… It doesn't get better. Everyone always told me to enjoy my childhood, but I didn't know this was coming. I knew it would be hard, but this? No, there was nothing they could have said to prepare me. I always thought there was more to life; I always attributed my pain and doubt to being a teenager. All teenagers have problems, right? It's in the hormones. Could I have been wrong? What if it isn't hormones? What if it's just… life? Then maybe I am lucky…" Mike took his hands off of his face, his eyes wide, but staring at nothing. "How could this be it? How could this be all there is? I just want to be happy." He felt tears fill his eyes as he struggled to contain his emotions, and much like the excitement he exhibited before - as he spoke to himself in the presence of no one - he did it merely for his own gratification. "Wake up." He whispered to himself as he closed his eyes. "Please, God, wake up."

Mike crawled to his pillows and rested his head. He laid there and tried to think, to put everything in perspective. He wanted to come up with a more rational explanation for things, one that wasn't whether or not he should be happy he was going to die, but it seemed no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to do it. His mind was chaotic and his thoughts were in great disarray; so, instead of trying to control his thoughts, he let his thoughts control him. He allowed his imagination to conjure up many fantasies: some of him being pitied while he rejected said pity, others of him being rejected while he pined for pity. He would often look at his door and wish for someone to come to him, whether it was his mom, it was Lucy, or maybe even Sandy; although, he knew that there was nothing any of them could say or do to help.

He lied, rolling around in his bed, a case of tumultuous anxiety resting wearily upon him. He would continually look at his clock, and each time he would find himself surprised at just how little time had progressed. Each second felt like an eternity; each moment another life of possibility squandered and wasted. Every few minutes, the storm within him would grow overpowering, and tears of fear, pain, and confusion would rise up and overflow out – dampening the fur beneath his eyes. He would then sink into a calm state. He would not cry; he refused too. He did not know what it was that caused the feeling to push his tears back, to contain his beckoning sobs; regardless, he obeyed.

"Maybe I should call her." He said aloud to himself. "What would I say? What would she say?" He looked over at his clock. It had only been 20 minutes since he had begun to rest. It seemed impossible to him. He sat up for a moment. He was tired of being alone, but he feared the company of others. He stood and walked to his door, and without a conscious thought present, he walked out. He went downstairs, the faint sound of the living room television alerting him of his mother's location. He found and looked at her. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, her body was wrapped in a blanket, and she seemed to be transfixed on the television; yet, it was apparent she did not care as to what went on in its fantastical world. She looked over at him, her expression softening, and she motioned for him to come over to her. Mike obliged and took a seat next to her. She wrapped her arm around him without a word, and he felt his body collapse into hers – her motherly love and warm exuberance soothing. She sobbed, but to Mike, she mourned; she mourned her deceased son. Mike did not share her pain; rather, he did, but he did not share her mechanism. He sat in silent longing, listless emotion, and dreaded confusion – staring with her at the fantastical world in the television.

He spent many hours finding escape in the animated box before him; so many, in fact, that when his sister returned home and his mother took her upstairs to inform the little girl of her big brother's potential – as well as soon approaching – mortality, he continued to look on, and when the sun fell away, only to be replaced by the dim light of the moon, his continued to look on, and when his brother required attention and tending too, he continued to look on, and when his mother dismissed herself to her room to sleep, he continued to look on. There did, however, come a time when his weary mind and body gave in to the grasp of nature, and he fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes he was surprised to see his ceiling and feel his bed. He had not remembered falling asleep, let alone going up to his room, yet there he was. He figured that he must have woken up at some point in the night and groggily made his way to his room. He also considered the possibility that his mother had, for some reason unbeknownst to him, taken great effort in carrying him to his bed, just as she had done when he was younger; although, he did recognize the notion as quite ludicrous.

After getting up to quickly use the restroom, he headed straight back to his bed to get some more rest. It seemed that, with his life span shortened, all he wanted to do was sit around. He had always imagined that if he had found himself in such an ill-fated position he would be far more lively, more inclined to do and say dangerous things, but ignorance was like a set of goggles, and with those goggles removed, he could see that the opposite was true.

Hours later, feeling a certain pang of hunger in his stomach, he emerged from the covers of his bed and headed towards the kitchen, and it appeared as though his house was disserted. He could not hear or see his sister, his brother, or his mother –not even Blur was accounted for. He entered the kitchen and sitting on a counter-top was an out-of-place piece of paper. He walked over to it, and just as he had suspected, it was a note.

"Michael,

I got a call from grandma and she isn't feeling very well. I took everyone and headed over there. I didn't want to bother you so I let you sleep. There is food in the freezer and you can invite over a friend if you want. AS LONG AS I HAVE MET THEM BEFORE. I love you and be careful. Don't open the door for anyone, and if you need anything call me at 555-973-3795. Call me if you need ANYTHING! Love you!"

"Huh." Mike said aloud. "I'm alone."

Mike walked over to a cabinet, opened it up, and removed a box of cereal.

"I wonder why she didn't ask if I wanted to go." Mike thought to himself. "It's not like there's anything to do here. Well, I guess there isn't anything to do at Granma's either. I can't forget it's like a five hour drive either." Mike removed the container of milk from the refrigerator, causing something to catch his eye. It was a jug of cheap wine. He stopped for a moment and stared at it, feeling an odd sensation of precocious desire rise up in him. No one was around to catch him, and no one would know; not to mention, he didn't need to get drunk, but he could always just drink a little. Maybe just to taste it, or maybe to even get a little buzzed – as people called it.

"No, that's stupid." Mike remembered the last time he had drank, and it had almost gotten him and his friends seriously hurt. He closed the refrigerator door and walked over to the cereal. After getting a bowl, he mixed it all together, and put the ingredients away – this time, not even giving time of day to his disconcerting tendencies. He then sat down to eat. He sighed heavily before taking his first bite; there was nothing to do but worry, and he knew it.

It was not long until Mike found himself in the living room, once again finding escape in the tranquilizing radiance of the television; except it seemed as though something was different. Before, it had failed in making him feel good, but it had at least assisted in assuaging his chaotic mind and it had helped in keeping him from feeling worse; that no longer appeared to be the case. Every minute that went by he felt worse. Every second he sat there it seemed as though his mind got more unruly and his body got heavier. Every moment felt like an eternity, and it soon got to where the television itself was doing nothing. He was falling into his own little world of worry and doubt and he could not find an escape.

After about half an hour of idle staring, Mike could feel himself becoming enraged. His mind screamed at him, telling him he was worthless, that he was doomed to die a death of an unremarkable tool, and the television did nothing but add to the noise. He would see the people in that fabricated world, the happy little lives, and he would be jealous. It was sick and wrong that those people were allowed to live perfect little lives when people like him had to suffer, and sometimes, for no reason. Why were they so lucky? He clicked the television off; he didn't care what those people had, wanted, or did.

He sat in silence, staring at nothing. He could feel anxious energy rising up in his limbs. He wanted to move, to run, to punch; he wanted anything to relieve the pain, yet ironically, it were those very feelings that exhausted him in ways that were beyond explanation. He felt so angry, so unhappy, so trapped. What was he supposed to do? How could anyone live with every moment like so? He walked up to his room, sat on his bed, and rested his face in his hands.

"Maybe I could call someone." He looked over at his phone. He felt an odd sense of déjà vu at that moment. Everything seemed too familiar. "No, there isn't anyone that could do anything. If I called Lucy, I would just end up doing something I would regret. If I called Daisy, she would just piss me off. If I called Abbey, he would just piss me off. If I called Paulo, he would probably just piss me off. If I called David, well, he would probably piss me off too." He laughed to himself as he started pacing around his room. "Then what the fuck am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do? There is nothing to do, no one to talk to – no, wait, that is precisely it. There is nothing to do! Maybe I could call mom, but like she could do anything. Maybe Sandy? Nope, she couldn't do anything either. I'm stuck here, alone, dying, but you know, it does seem rather appropriate. After all, it isn't anyone else's problem is it? It's mine because I was the one lucky enough to get cancer. I was the one blessed enough to be granted a fast and cold death. You know what? There is no confusion! I'm not confused! I finally get it. You know, when you really put things into perspective you really start to get it!" Mike was practically yelling. There was no one in the house to hear him, no one to judge him. He could say and do what he wanted and none of it could be out of turn. "This is life. This is shit. So, it's pretty easy to come to a conclusion, annnnnnd, if you haven't figured out what that is, it is that life, is, complete, fucking, fuck." He laughed to himself. "No, no, I'm just kidding, I mean it's just complete shit. I just wish I had the fucking- the fucking- to just… to just fucking end it! I mean, why should I live? Is there a fucking reason for it? I'm guessing not, because I sure as hell haven't seen one! All there is is pain!" He punched the desk in the corner of his room as hard he could, a loud bang ringing throughout the house. "…Fuck!" He yelled as he leaned against the wall, clutching his fist. He could feel a sharp pain running up his arm. "Oh, don't be a pussy, Michael. This is nothing… nothing compared to everything else." He inhaled deeply, tears filling the corners of his eyes.

"That felt pretty good." He said to himself, his voice much quieter. He left his room and headed downstairs. "Who would've thought that being left alone could be this much fun?" He walked into his kitchen and turned on the stovetop. He stared at it, watching it steadily get warmer and warmer. "Hmm, that really didn't hurt that bad, but this? This probably will." He laughed. "This is gonna feel good, and you know what? If this cancer is going to kill me, maybe I should just help it out!" He could feel his heart beating faster as he stared at the stove. "Yeah, this is gonna hurt." He spread his hand wide, the same one he had used to punch the table, lifted it in the air, and held it for a several seconds in nervous anticipation. He then, in one moment of manic insanity, smacked his hand down on the burning stovetop as hard as he could. He did not last more than a second before he quickly lifted his hand in the air; a pain he had never experienced in his life surging throughout his whole body. He gripped his hand in agony. The pain was so unbearable he was unable to let out anything more than a mere yelp before becoming silent. He shut his eyes for several seconds, and as he started to get a solid grasp on his surroundings once again, he ran over to this sink and ran his hand under cold water. It did nothing to either soothe or hurt. The pain continued to throb and radiate up his arm.

"Ergg, God! Why did I do that?" He said in tears. "Oh God, oh God, oh Gooooood!" No matter what he did he couldn't get the pain to go away. He looked at his hand and he could see the fur was burnt - his skin red and peeling. He turned the sink off, then immediately turned the stove off as well. He then walked over to the edge of the kitchen and sat in the floor, clutching his hand, and holding back sobs. He let his body fall over, allowing him to lie on the dusty floor. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it wasn't worth it, but all he knew was that he was so distracted by the horrific pain in his hand that he didn't care about the cancer, he didn't care about Sandy, he didn't care about Lucy, he didn't care about his mom, and he didn't care about his life. He closed his eyes, tears flowing out, and exhaled slowly.