A Man of Action

Bob slumped over the table, long brown hair hanging down loosely, tears trickling down his cheeks onto his hands, as the reality of his life worked its vicious torture. His mind was reeling, his emotions so intense with anger and disappointment and embarrassment, that he could not think, he could not speak. All he could do was lay his head down in surrender.

He was so far down the road, and so far away from who he thought he was or should be, that the psychological pain was physical. It fucking hurt.

How could he ever get back? The answer was, he couldn't. He could never undo the harm he had done. There wasn't enough time and he was too fucking tired; those truths crushed his spirit.

So what was left to do? He had no idea. But he knew he could not go on like this.

Bob staggered up and away from the table and fell into his recliner. He grabbed the remote, switched on the TV and pointed his face towards it. He never watched TV, he just looked at it. With a vacant stare, vaguely aware that people were moving, people were talking. It didn't matter. He was too empty to focus, a fucking shell masquerading as a human being. 

He ate a couple of French fries off the plate on the table next to the chair. Leftovers from last night.

On the really bad days he could sit in silence and say nothing and do nothing for hours. Suffering. Staring at the wall. Shut down like an unplugged machine. Numb, yet overwhelmed with pain. His soul's pain, his heart's pain - the worst pain imaginable.

How did he get here? It happened little by little over a great many years. Slowly, like water torture. He barely noticed the slow death of his soul as life beat him, battered him. As what passed for dreams faded into harsh reality. Obeying, always obeying. Keeping the boss happy, keeping the mortgage company happy, making his car payments, doing what others demanded, to the exclusion of happiness, the death of pride. 

His brain never really grasped what was happening, until it did. And on that day, in supreme frustration, he got staggering drunk. How could this happen to him? He was a smart guy, he could have been somebody.

That was the irony. He thought he was a smart guy, but that was one man's opinion. His life, where he was right now, proved otherwise. He was a fucking idiot.

Bob grabbed a bottle of whiskey and stalked out to his car. Christ, even his car was a fucking insult. A fucking Hyundai. Really? He deserved a Lincoln.

He drove around, sucking from the bottle, listening to Ozzy cranked up to eleven. Back roads, country roads, quiet roads. Roads that used to bring him peace. Bob was feeling pretty good after about an hour, but suddenly realized he needed to kick things up a notch. He felt the need for speed. 

He made his way to the highway and goosed the shitbox up to ninety, then a hundred. Could not believe this little imitation of a car could handle it. He was singing along with Ozzy and laughing hysterically. Other cars pulled to the right quickly as he flew. 

Bob tipped the bottle up, drained the last few ounces in one gulp and tossed the empty out the window. He watched it in his rear view mirror as it shattered on the road and laughed so hard he started to choke, but he got it under control because he was a man of action. He was fucking in charge.

Bob felt a whole lot better. A whole lot better.

He was God. He was fucking God.