It was the afternoon of January 21st, 2013. Nate was still recuperating from his fourth unsuccessful attempt but by the third hour the throbbing from his asshole still had not ceased. Nate rolled over back onto his stomach hoping for a second of relief but in vain. He felt the pressure in his bowels build as his stomach began to once again boil in protest.
“Aargh!” he let out a long wail as he staggered groggily to his feet; immediately, the pain from both the front and back of his body lessened by a tenth. Nate let out another moan in frustration and just as he shuddered with rage he caught a glimpse of himself in his dresser mirror. A truly pitiful sight: his disheveled hair spiked up like a maniac’s in parts, flattened out like it was lifeless in others and the rest drooped down desperately trying to stab at his eyes like a sick torturer who still had not had his fill on his long deceased victim.
Nate swatted it away, weakly, so he could see more clearly then looked back at the abomination.
“His eyes were not bloodshot,” he thought to himself, “he did not know how someone came up with that term but if it was from something as disturbing as taking shots of blood like tequila then his eyes at that very moment would resemble the drunken vampire’s chunky vomit after downing the whole fucking bottle!”
Nate chortled at his dark reverie, the heavy bags under his eyes jingling at every exhalation. He then let out a long sigh, grabbed the pill bottle on the dresser and popped another aspirin; laughing while doing so as he knew the futility of his efforts. He let out a final sigh and so began the dance; his stomach his sadist of a partner.
Nate paced up and down, criss-crossing his littered mine-field of a room, with a thunderous rumble of grenades and mortar resonating out from his belly. An hour passed and as the gastric maestro reached the climax of his piece, Nate grimaced at the encore that would undoubtedly arise. He flung his arm perfectly to the swish of the conductor’s flick, grabbed his tissue roll, ran to the bathroom and shut the door as quick as a curtain drop.
Sweat poured down his already drenched face as he strained once again to no avail. Nate eased up again and caught his breath. He wiped the sweat off his face and gazed at his surroundings. Just four shiny porcelain walls; chipped and crusted with grime, mould and twenty-years worth of broke tenants making the mistake of moving into the cheapest thing they could find in the paper.
Nate looked down at his ghostly pale feet; both propped up precariously on his toes so that they quivered weakly in the fluorescent lighting. In between them, his boxers had them cuffed at the ankles in a rough embrace and under those, jutting out slightly as his last toilet roll; most of it already used, the rest of it waiting patiently for the next emergency.
That toilet roll was Nate’s only friend. He remembered when the problems all started. He had looked at his then plump final roll and decided at that very moment to name it, Lady. Lady had been the one pillar of support through all his hardship. She had always been at his side through thick and thin but ultimately Lady gave Nate reassurance. The demon had to inevitably leave his body because that was his last roll. That shit was definitely going to be over by the time Lady finally sung her swan song.
Nate unraveled the roll till it finished, then looked at it the tissue in his hand, sighed then smiled. There was only enough for one more wipe.
Nate removed his boxers completely, unshackling his feet. He spread his legs wide apart and propped his arms against the cold porcelain walls. He then braced himself and on a three count strained with all his might…
In the memory of Nate Carnnes T. Pait
15 Sept. 1991 - 21 Jan. 2013