Breath

An adult male struggles with his mental health and isolation. Hi, first post. thanks!

breath

a portion from a larger work in progress

I sat on the edge of my bed and peered through the window, a weak spot, where Reality can slowly chip away at me.
I'm vulnerable in the mornings.

I took an inventory through the frosted lens of the window pane. The sky's colors seemed more muted than usual, all the color drained, like God reached into his toy chest and grabbed the eight box of crayons instead of the sixty-four and then couldn't be bothered to apply enough pressure to make any colors visible. Upon this anemic sky. rooted in the barren earth, stood an army of trees frozen in perpetual attention. Their hunched branches, shrouded in a dead frost, loomed defiant in the sky. All entombed in ice. A perfect representation of my impending doom. Why don't they just let go? I halfheartedly rose my hand to my forehead in a mocking military salute. The trees, as trees do, just remained still. Every morning it's the same, no response.
How long have I been sitting here? The old digital clock on the nightstand held the answer, but it was behind me and it would have involved too much effort to look.The worn, outdated carpet felt rough against my bare feet. My heart thumped, its offbeat echo rattled my skull (a bit too fast, a bit too loud). I counted my breaths, noting each one as I rubbed my damp palms against my bare legs, inhale, exhale, repeat.
I've sat here too long. My rhythm was off. I'm filthy.

I showered and took inventory; my ever-expanding gut reached past my waist and pulled me closer to the ground. Excessive body hair, some in the wrong places, somehow made me feel less evolved. One more Monday for this faltering body; how long before it lets go?— brushed my teeth, noticed my gums were bleeding, then thought about eating breakfast but grabbed a can of Coke instead. When was my last shower?
Finding my keys was more time consuming than usual; they were under a neglected pile of mail—final notice, final notice. In a rush, the room closed in. I took a quick glance around at the disarray. A pizza box with a half-moldy slice festered on the couch, the sink burst with dishes, and dirty laundry scattered about, all culminating into an all too familiar odor of decay that would make anyone else gag. I forgot to shave. My chest tightened. When did this become acceptable? Time to leave.

Fumbling between the soda can and the keys, I managed to lock my apartment door. Thursday, my last shower was Thursday. Not good. For a moment, I considered going back in—the disarray was familiar, strangely comforting. Gathering myself, I leaned my head against the door, feeling the chipped paint pressed against my forehead. A cold sting reached deep—catching me off guard. I paused.
Where the foundation meets the walkway, a small crack—more like a crevice—pulled my attention from the routine—Inhale, exhale, repeat. I dropped my coke. Fuck. All boxes checked.


As I headed to the car, the fresh air felt unfamiliar, yet cleansing. With each step, the sky pressed further down, heavy with its weight. Almost there, I could see the sanctuary of my car dusted with frost. Trudge, trudge, trudge—the ice groaned under my wet sneakers.
I never did bother to get those boots.

Finally, I reached the parking lot and retreated inside the car for a reprieve. I leaned back and the seat released a resigned moan. A chill settled in, and for a moment, I embraced the harsh bite of winter. I steadied myself, observing each deliberate breath fog the air—Inhale, exhale, inhale—Stop.
With the air now trapped in my lungs, my body tightened, and the last trace of my breath evaporated. My mind screamed. I clenched my eyes shut and doubled down. I regrouped and continued to hold it, clinging to the stillness as long as possible. Desperate, I let go. Gasp, inhale, exhale, repeat. When I opened my eyes, I noticed the windshield had iced over.
Defeated, I let the tears come.
I could call in, say I'm still sick. No, I missed Friday, meaning I'd have to get a doctor's note.
Inhale, exhale, repeat. Pull it together, it will get better once the car is moving.

The ride was typical, with morning radio blabber filling the car—self-inflicted noise pollution. Do people want to laugh this early? Just the traffic report please. The faint mint from dollar store toothpaste lingered in my mouth. Should've rinsed better. The morning DJ sounded more pleased than usual with his coarse humor, something about a political sex scandal. Along the highway, the reckless sprint of cars shifted to a slow clogged march. All of us reduced to an orderly mass, each in their own self-contained pressure cooker. Each with their own boxes to check, all on the verge of eruption. My grip on the steering wheel tightened, causing the non-slip pleather to squeak. No matter how early I start, the outcome is the same, I'm late.