Mountains

A man apathetically loses it all due to his depression.

The moonlight blue of a digital alarm clock illuminates the top of a small nightstand . A phone, wallet and set of keys lay in a misshapen pile forming an island surrounded by an ocean of abandoned coins. At the edge of the display's ethereal glow lies the wide eyed face of Ben Larson. He shifts onto his stomach, the 20^th movement he's made in the last hour alone. His eyes dart to the clock face and a sigh soon leaks from his paled lips; 2:18 am. Ben's expression quickly becomes annoyed and he bolts upright in his bed, swinging his legs to the ground. Finding his feet poised above the pant legs of his discarded jeans from the day before, he slips them on, latching the worn belt still laced through the loops to his waist loosely. He steps around the end of his bed and flicks the switch to his overhead.

The weak yellow of a ceiling light fixture with 2 bulbs burned out fills the room. Ben does a quick scan of the room, his hazel iris surrounded by streaks of red stresses slowly pass over a pile of clothes stuffed between the wall and his bed. Taking a step forward, he reaches a hand bravely into the unknown depths of the pile. Ignoring the cross-stitched smoothness of jeans and hoping against all odds that the smooth, straight stitched obscured article wasn't a pair of last week's underwear, his hands come upon the pliable stiffness of a cardboard box. Grasping the edge he pulls up, causing the dormant mountain of clothes to erupt anew as a bubbling volcano, the lava spilling over the edge making way for his prize. Walking away from the now flattened Mt. Saint Helen's slope in the corner, Ben opens the door to his room and brings the box with him.

Making the trek towards the dark fog of the living room at the end of the hallway, he stops at the edge of the artificial, sickly daylight emanating from his room and looks inside his box. Past the Amazon Prime tape lies a single, plastic wrapped candle. A slight shimmer of light passes over the wick tucked against the top of the candle as he rotates the box to get a good look inside. Gently, with an air of reverence, Ben lifts the candle out of the box and twists it around. He squints to read the label stuck to the wrapping:

CINNAMON STICK

with pure, natural spice extracts

Feeling proud of himself for successfully saving the best candle for last, Ben carries the box and candle separately past the light's threshold and walks forward into the next room. Switching on yet another light, he reveals the gray-brown dust and mint green tiles of his kitchen floor. He steps across the dead lichen flooring and places the candle on the only counter space left in the room, a small rectangle of wood sticking out from the wall. Ben brings the box to what has become the trash corner housing his trash can. He gently places it in close proximity to the rest of the recyclables forming the other mountain on his land.

“Tomorrow,” Ben says to himself. Noticing the neon green display of his microwave displaying a blinking 12:00, he adds yet another task to his mental to-do-tomorrow list that has been growing for the last 2 weeks. Deciding not to scale that mental mountain anytime soon, he moves to the cupboard above his stove. Bumping the handle of an egg crusted pan left to hang over the front of the stove, he searches the cupboard. A red box of Diamond matches sits on the first shelf. Ben grabs the box and walks back over to the candle. He unwraps the candle, sets the wick, and lights it. He briefly considers wetting the match before throwing it away, but with both sides of his sink full of dirty dishes, he naturally wouldn't want to get soot on them. Leaving the plastic wrap on the wooden fixture, Ben drops the match on the nearly overflowing trash can and watches it fall to the floor. He walks back to his room carrying the candle and sets it afloat in his coinage sea. Turning off the single bulb filling his room with light, he lays down in his bed and finally drifts to sleep.

The incessant cricket chirp of a smoke detector awakens Ben. He rises, slips into his clothes yet again and rushes to inspect the cause. The mountain of cardboard and trash in his kitchen has become its own volcano. As it burned from the ground up, the boxes on top fell to the sides spreading the inferno. Ben rushes to find his fire extinguisher. He tries and fails three times to spew anything more than air at the fire's base. Cursing himself for never settling his to-do-next-month list, Ben rushes back to his room and collects his island of valuables then makes his way to safety.He watches the match set his house alight from the street and looks at his phone: 2:45 am.

By the time the fire department arrives Ben's entire block is gathered across the street from him, chattering away. Ben finally stopped pacing in his lawn and simply sat down to wait. Nearly drifting off, he quickly snaps to attention when his ears pick up the low roar of a firetruck horn in the distance. Ben looks around him, slowly swiveling his head as far back as he can to take in the view of his house. The fire raged inside, crackling like Ben expects the cackling of a witch to sound. He almost appears to notice the fire for the first time. Once again Ben stands as a singular fire truck speeds into sight and stops in front of him. A hive of black and yellow body suited bees rush from the truck, one of which ushers Ben into the street, away from his burning life.

When the hive has done its work, all that remains of Ben's house is a smoldering mound of wood. Ben made his expression a mask since the truck arrived, and continues to look almost peaceful when declining offers from his neighbors to spend the night with them. “I'll be fine,” he'd said to one family, “I've already arranged something.” He hadn't. Instead, once everyone had gone back to their homes, Ben laid down on his lawn and slept. He'd deal with it tomorrow.