The Workaholic

The writing may be short, but the tale spans over the life of a boy who has become a man, stricken with obsessive compulsive disorder to work constantly. With everyone gone, he is all alone.

"You work too hard."

"Learn to take a break."

"Do you ever just relax?"

The guys at work know nothing of what I've been through, nor any idea why I'm this way. I can't stop working. I can't stop getting stronger. I can't be a failure. I have to always do better. I have to be the best. But what am I the best at? Who am I competing with?

My days are spent to the fullest, and sometimes, my nights as well. I work, from nine in the morning to five in the evening, as muscle at the local Green General warehouse. I simply take the boxes from the truck, and into the warehouse. I am told that I should use the dolly more often, but that thing seems to be only useful to Lazy people.

"You push yourself too hard."

"If you pulled something, then what?"

"You have too much energy."

From six o'clock to eight o'clock, I go to the old recreation center, where my coach spars with me during my boxing practice. Yesterday, I went a little overboard and broke the punching bag. Maybe the bag was made of cheap material. In the bag's defense, I was punching away at it for hours.

Boxing keeps my mind stable. My friends-- sorry, those guys who I once called friends, would normally go home and watch TV with their wives and children after work. My woman simply couldn't take me for what I was. She's gone now. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her.

"You never spend time with me."

"He's a better lover than you are."

"I can't stay with you any longer."

This house is so empty now. I hardly ever notice, as I'm out and about at night. But before bed, I realize how quiet this house is without her. When I wake up in the morning, there's nothing but a cold vacant space that she once occupied.

I can't seem to sleep at night, lately. In fact, I haven't slept in three days now. My body feels different. Maybe it is the exercise catching up to me. Maybe it's he lack of sleep. Regardless, I can't seem to stop.

"You want anything in this world? Well, you have to work for it."

"You're ten years old now. You're on your own."

"Get up! I'm not raising a slacker!"

That was how I was raised; to work for everything. I didn't have the luxury of sitting around like the other kids. By the time I had turned thirteen, I couldn't stop working; studying and doing house work all the time. My body cried at first, a lot like it is now. But it stops, and this is the first I've heard the cries of my muscles begging me to stop; my mind begging me to rest. I ignore these cries as I do my morning run.

I jog up the mountains just outside of town. No one is around. The peace and quiet relaxes me. No one comes up to these mountains. This makes the perfect jogging trail. I do this before work every morning: running through the mountain trail, and back home.

"You're going to run yourself into the ground."

"I don't want to see you give out at work."

"You're going to die alone."

Why wouldn't I die alone? This is the life I chose. Well, this life chose me. As strong as I am, as hard as I work, it will never be enough. People will always look down on me. I have to keep working hard, in order to make them stop.

As I run up the hill, I notice that I'm getting closer and closer to the morning sun. As I look back, at the trail, I am shocked to see my body, lying on the top of the mountain. But why am I not sad or worried? My heart isn't beating. I have to keep working hard, towards the sun.

Author's Note

1. The narrator, or any of the voices mentioned, are left nameless on purpose.
2. I am not sure if being a workaholic in itself is a mental illness, but this story was based on someone stricken with OCD.

Reviews

[Matthew Ian Herrawood W]

Usually something like this isn't my thing so I just give constructive criticism this time however I have 2 problems with that. First I didn't see anything that needs changing or doing better. Second I liked this. I'm not sure why I think there is just something compelling about it I would be very interested to see it I poem form. Very nice write

[Wes of The NotePad]

Thank you. The idea was to not present a plot or problem at all, but to display a the narrator's life after his "problem" has already destroyed his life.

[North Dakota]

This story was nice, well explained, yet mysterious, and a shocking ending. I really liked it.