Death Bound: Life Support Edition

Vacationing in Brazil

Paul Garfunkle shifted his gaze down towards the tranquil blue water. After years and years of saying, "One of these days," he was finally doing it.

Finally vacationing in Brazil.

Nothing could ruin his mood. Not his highly-inconvenient germaphobia. Not his pestering boss. Not his neighbor, or her Jack Russel Terrier, who peed through their shared fence onto his side, killing his grass with its acidic imperfections. Not his ex-wife— and the reclining chair she'd stolen from him in the divorce settlement. And not his new wife and her brat kid, who he was forced to let tag along to Brazil out of domestic obligation.

Nothing.

Paul's attention shifted to a newspaper. The headline read of an oil spill, but that was someone else's problem. Certainly not his and certainly not one he'd let ruin his vacation. He forgot about it just as quickly as he'd read it.

He closed his eyes. Brazil. Flipping Brazil. He still couldn't quite believe it. How'd he get so lucky? A warm sun amidst a tropical sky. A pleasing breeze. Expansive, clear water endlessly lapping on the shore as if it were nature's rhythmic melody and the distant claps of thunder were its bass.

A sensation passed through him then. He smiled, slight, but genuine, and exhaled a calming breath of air through his nose.

Something splashed on his sandaled feet, shattering his thoughts of Brazil, and returning him to the airport restroom he now stood in.

He stepped back from the urinal and opened his eyes, watching as more teeny droplets splattered the tiled floor. His eyes widened. Had pee just splashed on his...

No. No, nonono.

He wanted to run and cleanse himself, wash away the bacteria and pathogens now infesting his skin, but he was stuck mid-stream, imprisoned by a liquid chain.

As the blue urinal water—fed by his flow of yellow urine—swirled into green, he forced himself to not think of the miniscule amount of pee trailing down the sides of his feet, snagging on the small vellus hairs and spreading out, soaking into his epidermis and invading his body.

He gagged. Fought it back. Gagged again.

It's not the end of the world, he thought. 95% of urine is water. I can wash it off when I wash my hands. I can handle this. Just breathe.

He fought to control his anxiety, but one-word thoughts kept sparking up in his mind then fading to black, then returning, teasing, prodding, hehe-haha.

Bacteria. Pathogens. Microbes. Contamination. Infection. Germs.

Germs.

Germs.

His breathing grew heavy. His chest grew tight.

He remembered the oil article and glanced again at it hanging in a frame on the wall. Anything to distract himself. How big was the spill? Breathe easy. Was it in Brazil? Breathe freely. That'd be his luck. Cancelled vacation because of some dimwit forgetting to close a valve. Come on Paul, you got this. Just cast out the unhelpful thoughts. Welcome in the positive. Breeathe. Breeeathe.

No, the spill wasn't in Brazil, it was somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. Great.

Yes, breathe. You got this.

With a satisfied smile, he relaxed and exhaled.

He carefully shook himself dry then wiped the tip of his penis with an alcohol swab before tucking himself away, zipping up, and stepping back from the toilet's censor to allow it to automatically flush.