The Art Of Loving You

Two

A charity case.

The moment he shut the door of the bathroom, an overwhelming feeling of nausea rose from deep down his stomach and he rushed to the toilet seat and retched its content.

He hadn't been able to eat much, but then how could he? How could anyone stomach food when their lives were being paraded as a charity case? How could he eat when he was staring right at the fountainhead of the darkness in his life?

The feeling of being fisted in his guts overcame him again and bile rose in his throat as he regurgitated dissolved food. He watched the morsel he'd been able to stomach come back with a vengeance. He waited for a few more seconds for the spasms to cease before flushing and heading for the sink to rinse his mouth and wash his face.

As he was washing his face, his hands started to shake and give in to the tremors, and consequently the jaws of bitterness that gripped at his heart. His hands fell and he wept bitterly.

He'd been called a charity case. Well, wasn't that what he was?

Three months ago, no one would have guessed he would be here right now. At least he hadn't. Last Christmas, if a seer told him his future would be filled with so much darkness and gloom, he would have laughed at the notion. An hour to the moment his life had been turned inside out and ripped into atomic shreds, he hadn't the vaguest it was going to happen.

It had hit him hard and fast without a tip-off, that he hadn't had the time to retreat, to recoup, to save himself, to run. He had walked right into a windstorm of flying elephant shit.

The door of the bathroom was tapped twice. "Mike? You okay?"

Mike didn't hear him. He kept on sobbing, though at a low pitch. As though intuition told him to stop, he did and bent over to wash his face, just as the well-wisher walked in.

Mike looked up at him. "Sorry Matt, the shrimp didn't go down well."

Matt nodded, as though to say he understood and agreed with him. He hitched his thumb towards the door and Mike followed him. He didn't want to. He wished he could run. He wished he could be anywhere else but where he was at the moment. He wished he could disappear, or die.

Why hadn't he died that terrible day? Why had his seat belt held him back from smashing his head on the windshield like it had done to the two other passengers in the vehicle? Why hadn't he bled to death from the cuts he'd sustained? Why was he still alive? Why hadn't he died and saved the world of his miserable, sorry excuse of a living being?

He would do anything to give his life in place of those who had died, and gladly too. He saw no reason for being alive, or being here, for that matter. He and Matt reached the table and took their seats, facing two other men, Dr. Stone and his assistant, Dr. Earl, who had been waiting for him.

"Mr. Drayton, as we were saying," Dr. Earl began in earnest, barely letting Mike's ass touch the seat. "It would be in your best interest to accept the relief."

Matt was demonstrating with his hands, simultaneously with Mr. Earl's speech and Mike frowned at him. "There's no need for that."

Matt looked at him with a brow raised in askance but Mike didn't bother to fill in the gap. He was tired of repeating the same thing over and over.

"More coffee, Mr. Drayton?" Dr. Earl asked with his nasal voice, leaning forward and holding the coffee jug.

Mike didn't reply as he hadn't heard him. Matt tapped him and pointed at the coffee mug and then pointed at Earl. Mike shook his head politely. He didn't want coffee or alcohol or foul-smelling shrimps. He wanted to get out of there. Fast.