Rejecting Mr. Wright

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Slender fingertips pounded rapidly on a laptop keyboard, making short work of a column that needed submitting in less a minute. Procrastination wasn't intentional, it just happened naturally.

As soon as the submit button was pressed, a decisive sigh escaped a young man's parted lips, not realizing until after his article was submitted that he had been holding his breath.

Within an instant, the article was up on the website, ready for people to devour with keen eyes and a thirst to find something to complain about. In the year two thousand and sixteen, that was just what the world of journalism, and the world in general, had come to.

There was so little room for error that one slip and your credibility could go down the toilet with no hope of resurfacing. A difference in opinion could cost you a lucrative job, or even just a mediocre one that served to pay the rent on time. Every last shred of research had to be thoroughly examined to make sure it was fit for the public eye, and journalists essentially functioned as hand-puppets for whatever politicians or other lobbyists were popular at the time.

Fresh out of college with a Master's in Journalism, Milo Wright was teetering on the edge, a metaphorical precipice challenging him to take the plunge or play it safe. His head told him many things, like how the rent was due next week, or how playing it safe had gotten him this far, and how he seemed to have established a good rapport with many of his colleagues.

However, a few key facts could not, and would not, go ignored.

He was growing tired, both mentally and physically. He had held this position for six months, and after the first six weeks knew it wasn't meant for him. It wasn't his place, didn't suit him. He wasn't anyone's hand-puppet; he detested being controlled.

Milo had studied briefly political science in journalism at the University of California, Los Angeles, or UCLA, and figured out fairly early on that politics bored him to no end. However, coming into the field so close to an election year meant a couple of things. One, everybody's focused on politics, and two, if you want to get a job, you have to suck it up and write political junk that people will read.

Additionally, a tremor was beginning to recur in his right hand, one that no amount of massaging, healthy diets, or muscle relaxers could quell. He was beginning to worry. He had seen one doctor about the tremors already, and that doctor brushed him off with a flick of the wrist, and his pen, as he prescribed some cyclobenzaprine, a type of muscle relaxers for Milo to pick up at the pharmacy on the corner. Stress, the doctor said, and stress Milo believed, until the tremors didn't stop with the medication.

He adhered to the dosage religiously, wanting it to help. He even had the prescription refilled yesterday, eight pills left in the little orange bottle, enough to last him through the week. He had a high stress job, he knew, but he tried to take some time for himself. He would take long walks on the beach near his apartment, and he even took a yoga class, though that only lasted about a week, after he realized that everyone else in there was of the opposite sex. Feeling self-conscious about being the only guy there, he dropped the class and stayed home instead.

Between the constant noise of Los Angeles, the hum of his laptop, the traffic, the dead-end job, the deadbeat doctor, the ever-present sensory overload, and the tremor in his hand that served as the icing on the cake, stress was always there. Screaming in his face, jumping out at him from behind doors, and lurking around every corner.

It was like the lingering, crass family member that invades holiday dinners without bringing any food to contribute, while consuming at least a third of it on their own. The one that talks with their mouth full, regaling the rest of the family with unwarranted tales of their own stupidity, as they openly wonder how their life is so screwed up. The one that photobombs every otherwise respectable picture with their tongue sticking out. The one that puts their grimy shoes on the polished cedar coffee table and picks their teeth while carrying on a half-witted conversation. The one that you're forced to put up with merely because that's the hand that life dealt you, and you have to stick it through.

Stress was the unwelcome family member in Milo's life, and nothing, or no one, was helping.

Milo's family knew about the tremors he was having, and worried for him as well. With one slip of the tongue, Milo mentioned it in a phone conversation with his mother, and immediately regretted it. When did this start? Has it gotten worse? How bad is it? Have you been to the doctor? Do I need to schedule you an appointment? Have you been taking your multivitamins? My friend Becky says that a kale diet really helped her get her health back on track-

And so on.

Milo had been taking his multivitamins, he had seen a doctor, and no, he was not about to start a kale diet.

His family meant well, sure, but their relentless probing and questions, constant phone calls and texts, and every little bit of contact in between just stressed him out further. He was afraid that one day they were just going to show up at his doorstep unannounced, there to "help" when and where he needed it. 

The pressure was constantly building, and never once let up. No reprieve, just a reckless slamming of the gas pedal to the floor, accelerating forward uncontrollably.

The tremors felt like they were growing worse, whether they actually were or not. Perhaps it was a placebo effect, just in the opposite direction. Either way, they persisted, and the muscle relaxers at their current dosage weren't helping a bit. Despite the fact that Milo got his degree in journalism and not medicine, he decided to take his health into his own hands if no one else would.

A creaky groan issued from the springs in Milo's desk chair as he slouched back, no longer hunched over the laptop working in a deadline-induced panic. He turned his wrist over, checked the time on his watch, and noticed that despite it being only six at night, his eyes were getting droopy, eyelids growing heavier by the second. He hadn't eaten dinner yet, but somehow felt like throwing up everything he'd eaten in the past week.

The pressure kept building, behind his eyes, in his ears, in his head, in his chest. It felt like someone was stabbing him in his heart with a white-hot knife, forcefully digging it in. He could hear the echo of his heart beating faster in his chest as he struggled to process everything he was feeling, much less try to fix it.

His heart rate was rising rapidly, his pulse thready and weak. Every shallow breath he struggled to draw in caused him further panic, unsure of what to do about this sudden, drastic shift in condition. His heart pounded faster, faster in his chest, Milo helpless to slow it down. His vision became blurry and clouded, rendering him unable to discern where anything was by sight alone. He attempted to stand, about to walk to his phone to call for help, but collapsed to the floor as soon as he shifted his body weight vertically. A resounding thud sounded throughout the apartment as his fall sent vibrations through the chilly linoleum floor.

The whites of Milo's eyes exposed themselves as his pupils rolled back into his head. He started convulsing violently, writhing on the floor, spine arching and flattening with enough force to sustain an injury. He lay seizing, alone, drowning in his dry, deserted apartment.

All that remained was the little orange bottle of cyclobenzaprine on Milo's desk, lying on its side, empty. 

~

Hey guys, what did you think? Let me know in the comments, I look forward to chatting it up with you! As always, if you feel so inclined, show the vote button some love, or send some feedback my way! Or both. Both would be absolutely fantastic. ;)

Anyway, hope you enjoyed chapter one!

Thanks,

Haley