Cancer.

Sequel to something. Not too many more of these. I don't want to wear out the idea.

There’s a screeching cacophony of sounds playing, all the time. Nothing moves him. Nothing sings to him like it should. It’s always a little disjointed, some kind of stinging urge instead of relief. An impulse. Hurt yourself. Waste. Waste of life. What a disappointment.

Waste waste waste waste waste waste waste waste waste waste waste waste waste. He didn’t mean to take it out on anyone else. Sometimes, he’d just lose his bearings, and to find them faster than he might on his own, he needed to indulge whatever makes him want to hurt. It would clear his diseased thoughts.

Jogging was awful, and he hated it, but there was a profound relief now that he had finished and was home. It felt so good just to take off the sticking, choking clothes, although the sight of his body soon brought another wave of disgust. Matted, loathe, misshapen. It was better than wearing the sweat-clothes, at the very least.

Believe me, it was the very least.

His ever-present roommate was watching him, looking at his ugly body, laughing to herself. She was always just laughing at him. Watching her laugh, he felt like crying. Sorrow gagging from the joy. Stop. Please just stop. Please. I’ll do anything if you just shut the f**k up and leave.

Please. Just stop.

He showered. It felt wonderful. He could be comfortable, naked, and it didn’t even need to be ruined by the sight of himself; he could just close his eyes and pretend it was from the face wash or shampoo. It was better to lie.

Truth is a cancer. It’s cancer in the lungs, when it cuts at the flow of his breath and turns him into a gasping idiot. It’s cancer in the heart, the way it hurts, it hurts so much, just to keep beating, pushing that poisoned blood through his stupid body. It’s a cancer of the brain, the way it clouds judgment even as thoughts focus in.

The chemotherapy of self-illusion was far better than the cancer of truth.

Her eyes spoke. Maybe her mouth even moved, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She got to her knees and watched him get hard. He knew what was happening. He forgot that she thought he was a massive disappointing joke. It was exciting. For a moment, he forgot how repulsive his dick was. It was fine. It was good, even. A foreign idea.

He closed his eyes and let her suck him off. It was great. She was great at giving head �" not that he’d know. He even whispered to himself.

“I really like that,” was all he said. Nothing dirty. A simple statement.

No sooner had he said it than she stood back up and stared into him. It came back in waves. Now he was a swine once again, fit only to roll in his own filth. Did he say something stupid? Was she going to leave now? He wanted to cry and break his fingers. His stupid f*****g fingers, and his toes, too, while he was at it. You f*****g idiot. You’ve ruined everything.

She didn’t say anything. She was so perfect, standing before him. He was suddenly conscious that she wasn’t receiving any of the water. He stepped back a bit, but she was gone already. Just like a f*****g dream. That disgusting wretched handmaiden of pustular suffering.

It felt so terrible to hit the floor and wail like an infant. He was aware, in the back of his mind, that his neighbors would hear. A larger part of him didn’t care. The smallest part wondered what she’d think. He just laid there and screamed like an animal with its foot in an iron trap. He screamed until he could taste blood, his throat tissues torn.

The water was cold.

Cancer. A walking cancer. A breathing, living, shitting cancer. I’m going to f*****g kill someone. The TV just buzzed. Buzz, buzz. Then it started screaming. He threw a phone through it and felt so much better, but only for a moment. He wasn’t sure how he ended up in the living room. He couldn’t even remember how many minutes of good feeling he’d grasped before he found himself in bed, bringing the lash across his back. It’s what he deserved for being weak.

She watched and just laughed at him. Her face was muddled with horror and pain, like he was whipping her too. That just worked him into a frenzy.

When he went to sleep on his sheets, now ruined with blood, she was there, sneaking her cancer-fingers along his wounds. Pretending she cared. Sometimes she’d do something loving, and then she’d laugh at him. Got you again, you c**t. Welcome to hell.