Comfortably Numb

The dull yet continuous thud of a human fist against the front door was what roused me from my slumber; it was the catalyst to the flood of senses which inevitably enveloped my consciousness. Nausea, blurred vision, hunger, and the putrid stench that reeked of decaying matter that was undoubtedly my own body odour; I was a physical mess.

Reluctantly, I rose from the sofa that was discoloured from drying vomit and half-walked, half-stumbled in the partial light that was glinting on the reflective surface of the wall-clock. 5 a.m.; too damn early for a man to awaken to the burdens of life. I will not refute the fact that I was never an early riser; I despised mornings.

My esteemed guest had revealed himself to be none other than Doctor G. Moore, who worked at the local clinic, here to proceed with my prearranged ‘routine check-ups’. Not that I needed it, I would of said my condition was stable and did not require external assistance. However, it was ‘professionally recommended’ and was said to ‘not cost me a single dime’.

Ha, as if I cared.

The doctor, who appeared to be feeling uncomfortable and awkward, situated himself on a plastic stool opposite my position on the sofa. Perhaps he was unsure of how he could possibly transition into the aggravating task of monitoring my mental health.

Mental health? You may be wondering, was I insane? It is highly probable that one would tend to agree, despite the rhetorical nature of the question, for what sane man required a psychiatrist to regulate his mental health on a daily basis? Truthfully, I may strike the individual as ‘odd’, or ‘disturbing’, but surely not to the point that dedicated assistance was required!

Not that I would actually benefit from external help anyway, as five whole minutes of the professional medical visit was spent in silence. The doctor was perhaps contemplating the thoughts of hesitation, doubt and possible fear. However, it was unnecessary for him to experience that level of uneasiness in my presence, for such fear was surely irrational. What possible harm could I have caused? The answer is as clear as the morning sky – no such maliciousness exists inside my personality.

“Hello?” Moore finally spoke, who searched for any expression on my pale visage. I barely comprehended his words; his speech seemed slurred and echoed in my mind.

“Is there anybody in there?”

Still no response.

“Just nod if you can hear me…”

Nothing.

“Is there anyone home?”

Sighing, he shifted impatiently in his seat. He half-heartedly wiped his glasses with a handkerchief, unsure and anxious of how to proceed with this situation.

“You know the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner I can leave you alone.” Moore suggested, somewhat impatiently.

Finally I told Moore what I told everyone else, “I cannot explain my predicament, for you would not understand.”

Confusion swept across the doctor’s face, “That’s why I’m here, to help you. I can ease the pain, but I’ll need some information first.”

His words trailed off, he had noticed that I was staring forlornly at an object beyond his shoulder. He craned his head to follow my gaze and found it; a sepia photograph that hung loosely on the opposite wall. It depicted a beautiful maiden with long, flowing hair and a bright smile that was easily distinguishable amongst the fading paint of the wall.

Curiosity got the better of Moore, “Who is that?” he had asked, perplexed.

“My sister,” I said solemnly, “she passed away from brain cancer in the prime ages of her life.”

Moore’s expression quickly shifted to that of empathy, “I’m sorry to hear that, if there’s anything I can do to help you, feel free to ask.”

“I only need time to heal my wounds, I appreciate the help doctor, but this is not going to work out.”

Moore brushed his trousers and stood, he had given up. Perching his spectacles back on the bridge of his nose, he glanced back, almost pitifully at me. “I’m sorry, Syd. I tried my best. If you ever find the need for help, do feel inclined to ask for it.”

I remained rooted to my seat, watching him leave like a hawk would eye its prey. The solid slam of the door had confirmed that the doctor had, indeed, left. Allowing myself a feeble laugh of victory, I reached downwards towards the floor, my fingers searching for purchase. Surely enough, my fingers had eventually found a purposeful gap in the aging floorboards. I groped in the darkness for the familiar feel of my desired object; a hypodermic needle.

My sister did not die from brain cancer. She was not even my sister.

Working with fumbling hands, I filled the needle with a water-based mixture, regarded by most a narcotic.

The girl from the photograph was my lover. My ex-lover.

Now trembling, I carefully rolled up my sleeves and positioned the syringe over a vein in my forearm.

Had I not done enough for her? Had I failed to impress her? Because if she had truly loved me, she would have remained faithful...

This was the point of no return. Slowly, I forced the syringe downwards, wincing as the needle pierced my skin. One firm squeeze was all it took, and I allowed the foreign liquid to flow through my system.

I felt a mixture of emotions; anger, hate, loneliness, sadness, guilt and shame. Anger at her, anger at her forbidden love, anger at myself; it was anger with malicious intent.

Then nothing, hollowness swept throughout my being. My mind numbed, the pain of past memories receded with my consciousness; this was my escape from the anguish and the guilt.

I did not know what I was doing; but I now realised that it was wrong, and that no one should ever know of what had occurred, including me.

On the dawn of the twenty-first of May, at 5 o’clock, two young individuals were murdered in their suburban home, a male and a female. Their bodies were disposed of in what I had originally conceived as a hidden location. An investigation had commenced, and I knew that they would eventually trace the evidence back to the source.

Over the ensuring weeks I slowly deteriorated, both physically and mentally. I resolved to using narcotics, to ease the anguish and the burning guilt that had plagued me. I finally found sorrow in my actions. She did not need to die; this is not who I am...

And now, as I lay transfixed by the soothing sensation of the receding pain, I have become... comfortably numb.