WHEN BAD DOGS DO GOOD THINGS

The Scent of Failure

The Scent Of Failure

Time passes like leaves from trees in Autumn. When I was a kid, really little even, my parents would take me to a little village in the North Carolina Appalachian Mountains called Blowing Rock. We'd stay a week in what was called "peak week" in the middle of October.

At around the end of September, the lush, green rolling hills and valleys begin producing spots of color, like a beautiful plague. The higher up trees and limbs turn first, from a bright, warm green to cherry specks of red, seas of purple, withered yellow, and a washed out, almost pumpkin orange. The cool, sometimes chilly sunny fall days speed up the progression, like the warmth of the sun is a death hug. Sometimes, I imagine the sun loving the trees beneath it so much that it kills them, hugging something so tightly that it chokes.

By the first week of November, the trees have typically become barren, rustling skeletons dancing in the now frigid breeze. The sea of vibrant color decorating the mountain sides has melted away to become a graveyard of forest and nothingness.

It's easy then to forget about the passage of time, the impermanence and cyclical nature of things. There are flocks of people who travel into the mountains to see the seas of leaves, the tourism industry booms in these weeks, and then everything seems to wither away into nothing. I like the image of the sun loving the trees below so much they die, as if love is the poison of life.

Chained by my legs to the wooden chair with an IV pumping God-Knows-What into me as a cold, autumn breeze washes over me, I'm reminded of these childhood memories. They give me warmth inside when everything else is cold. The drugs that Ben gives me help with that warmth too, but that's besides the point.

Time passes like these falling autumn leaves. Days roll into nights which roll into mornings and afternoons and evenings, one after another with little else. Every evening, Ben brings me a meal, each as gourmet as the last. Some nights I get steak, other nights I get salmon and rice, sometimes fried chicken. It's always delicious, fucking life-changing, like Ben is the world's best grandma. Rarely do I have energy to do anything besides eat whatever he puts in front of me, then I've fallen back into a dreamless black void until it's time to eat. I barely have energy to think but that's become almost comfortable: eat, sleep, no stress, no bills.

Maybe there's another comfort in knowing that there's nothing left to worry about, that my fate is decided and it doesn't matter. Still, there are brief moments where I miss the human side: I miss talking to Kim and learning about the irrelevant shit that pisses her off. I miss hearing a ding on my phone and being excited that it might be her or someone else. Nothing else matters anymore. Not the suicide attempt, not the never ending pain in my ass or throat. I'm powerless to fate now.

One Autumn night after I've been there for what feels like weeks even though it could've been just a couple of days, the door leading out pops open and Ben comes in with what looks like a cafeteria tray, on top of which are several plates. Even in the dim light of the burn barrel, which I've never seen Ben actually light yet it seems to be perpetually burning, I can make out dark red pasta sauce over a slab of lasagna, a yellowed piece of garlic bread, and the leaves of salad. A little silver sipping cup of balsamic jiggles around with each of Ben's steps along with a glass of red wine.

He sets it over the wooden tray above my lap with a light smile, seeming to study me for a moment, judging what I'll do. He's wearing a white dress shirt and black pants, more dressed up than usual. Usually he just leaves but it's like he's waiting to see what I'll put in my mouth first. Wanting his approval for some reason, I reach for the wine. Ben smiles. I don't know enough about wine to know anything about flavor profiles but it tastes... red.