Entangled

His alarm went off at the time it was set the night before. He rolls over and hits the snooze button, believing in his heart five extra minutes will cure him of his severe exhaustion. He shot up in a panic after groggily glimpsing the clock on the TV box that sat across the room on a chest high burgundy nine-draw drawer, realizing he was four minutes behind schedule. He couldn’t afford to enter the doors of his office even just one minute late, especially after receiving his third tardiness warning in as many days. He then proceeds to rip off the cotton blanket that covered his lower half, as his torso was already propped up. Swinging his legs, he propelled himself off of his queen-sized bed, the bed that supported his sleeping body throughout the night with just the right amount of give from the coiled springs. The existence of back problems was a floating speck at the far reaches of the realm where all life’s negatives and fears resided. Feet landing firmly on the rough, bristled carpet, his morning routine commences. He turned to the right as if commanded to about face by an unnecessarily booming voice of a military officer. Taking five small steps, in which he barely lifted his feet off the ground allowing his heel to swipe across the carpet, causing a dull thud to ripple throughout the room, he begrudgingly made his way to the burgundy nine-draw drawer (As previously mentioned). Once there he gripped the cylindrical silver nob that protruded from the middle top drawer of the burgundy nine draw drawer (As previously mentioned). Tugging like the first stroke of his habitual masturbation routine, he pulled the drawer open, only to have it jam three quarters of the way. Having to give the drawer a second tug, with just a little more force, not dissimilar to the second stroke of his habitual masturbation routine, he finally pried it open. He looked down upon the both empty and full pill containers that sat like floating lifeboats on top of the sea of scattered business cards, forgotten parking tickets, lighters, and old trading cards of personal importance to what seemed like an existence proceeding his reincarnation (Punarjanma), a central pillar of a popular South Asian’s set of beliefs, that came to be his current being. Reaching his hand down into the waters, he one by one secured three lifeboats and a life jacket and placed them atop the drawer. Starring back at him in height order (he was always the first in line dating back as far as he can remember, obviously, with being the shortest and all), were the four pill containers; 150 mg lamatrigine, 100 mg lamotrigine, 20 mg Prozac, and 10 mg Finastride. The 150 lamotrigine bottle turns to the 20 mg Prozac one, and with the sarcastic snark of an Emory graduate, with a degree in law uses to let the hesitant graduate of Buffalo State with a degree in physical education know that there is a line that cannot be circumvented at CVS, he says “Look at this guy, just teeming with potential,” This prompts the 20 mg Prozac to laugh so viscerally that it would be impossible to mistake it with anything remotely equating it to the impurity of social etiquette.  10 mg Finastride butts in pleading “ease up guys, we’re here to help him grow, not tear him down” only to be followed by 100 mg lamotrigine who finalizes the topic like a clerk stamping a written contract with “ there’s no helping this guy, what a f*****g loser.” Hearing this, and internalizing this, he closes his eyes and shakes his head as if he had just walked into an unseen spider web. His eyelids then slowly and hesitantly peel back unlocking the organs of vision. The organs that are a complex optical system that collect light from the surrounding environment, regulates its intensity through a diaphragm, focuses it through an adjustable assembly of lenses to form an image, converts this image into a set of electrical signals, and transmits these signals to the brain  (Wikipedia). Yes, these organs.  After this biological process occurs, allowing him the ability to see the visual, and only the visual, world in front of him, the pill bottles cease to possess any anthropological characteristics, returning to the static, inanimate objects they are, and always were. Relieved, he picks up each pill bottle in succession. After blindly and seemingly as difficultly as a intoxicated bum attempting to pick up a quarter on the streets of Manhattan, he secures his proper morning dose, from each bottle, and places them down an open space on top of the burgundy nine draw drawer (As previously mentioned). “Why can’t I remember to get one of those stupid weekly pill organizers,” he says in a scolding, exasperated exhale. As soon as that last word, ‘exhale’ flows up and over his reddened, chapped lips, the answer appears faster than any contestant on Jeapordy has ever come close to hitting their button. WHAT IS DEPRESSION? That is correct says Trebek. This depression is the depression of the most debilitating kind. It is all encompassing. Its as if his being is folded over itself inside a genie bottle in the dead center of his brain. This tarnished, scratched, dented, dull genie bottle, one that has clearly been the recipient of years of countless attempts to relieve it of its contents, its powers, is crucial if he is to have any chance of surviving the future. This bottle might as well represent the last vestige of hope. Contained within this magical yet normal, as seemingly observed through others apparent possession of it (maybe, hopefully knockoffs. There must be a collection of real ones produced, but only a finite amount must be in circulation. O)

Reviews

[haydengt63]

Hello. Thanks for asking me to look at your story. I enjoyed it very much. i am not a professional writer but a professional theatre director so i can only talk about peoples writing from that perspective.

Like I say, i enjoyed it very much so and will only talk about the things that I think could make it better. Please do not think that i am necessarily RIGHT in y thoughts. it is just my reaction.

I believe you have a sense of humour that you are not letting shine through. We read moments that make us smile and want to enjoy more of this but i think you have stopped yourself. Humour is a great way to then be able to surprise us with the tragedy of the depression he is experiencing.

I think you have a very vivid imagination for metaphors and imagery but i think you have over stacked the story with too many images for us to digest. My writer friends often talk about 'shoot a darling' ie ideas you love but they juts do not fit. i think you may be able to cull some imagery to allow the story to flow easier. Can is suggest you break the story into paragraphs. this will allow you to see the structure more easily.

I hope you see these ideas not as criticism, but refinement.

Thx
haydengt