Chapter 3: Zach

He woke up thirsty. His mouth was plaster and only after a few moments did he realise his throat felt scratched. He vaguely remembered making himself puke the binge of drinks he had subjected himself to… Scenes rolled through his head; he pieced them up. Today was going to be a downer, he knew it.

His body was aching and his head throbbed. Despite the pain, he recognised the familiar wave of darkness loaming ahead. His depression had surreptitiously settled in, waiting like an old friend at the door. Drinking had probably not helped, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference any way. Zach looked at his hands, grappling with the idea that it would get worse before it could get better. He was staring, plunging into himself to find the courage to face this day. He knew what was coming and he felt fear. He hesitated and looked for a second too long into the black box. That’s how they had labelled it at the ‘institute’. The ultimate exit strategy, the one mom had chosen. He couldn’t think of that. He pulled himself out, catching himself in time: ‘Come on man, get it together. Toughen up. You can do this. We can do this. Just get out of bed,’ he pleaded with himself. 

He put the black box aside, rolled out of the sheets and braced himself for the weighty week ahead. It goes up, it goes down but it’d go up again, he mechanically drummed in his head. He knew his own words like his own dog: predictable, loyal, relentlessly at the foot of his bed. His headache have him a thud. He sat back down, stunned by the pain. He still had those pills he picked up last week. He’d pop a couple and a few gallons of coffee later, would hit work, he mentally calculated.

Zach was blessed with an ease for anything he tried out, self-destruction being his speciality. Having been told all his life he could do anything, be anything he wanted had robbed him of desire and ambition. He had settled for independence and made websites commissioned by start-ups, working to his own pace, wherever and whenever it suited him. So when his dark friend came visiting, he could wall himself up and wait for the tide to subside. They had labelled him manic depressive. They had labelled him many things but this ‘condition’ seems to have stuck. Fuck’em. He got up again and put the kettle on when the phone rang.

He picked up the cell, a battered Nokia he kept in defiance of the splurge for smart phones, commuters’ life-line. He glanced at the number and his heart skipped a beat. He had erased that number numerous times in the dim effort to rid himself of her memory and yet, powerless to avoid knowing the last three digits burned in his mind. He decided to ignore the call and by its own volition, his thumb pressed the little green (fucking) button.

‘Hey! What’s up?’

‘Oh, hi Zach. Not much. Hoe’s it going?’

‘Yea. Well, smashing actually.’ He never said smashing. Dick. Why was she phoning so early anyway?

‘Oh, right. Well, I just wanted to call to say hi.’

‘That’s nice.’ No, it’s not. That blood sucking leach you’re permanently in heat for is going to want something. Just hang up pal. Do it.

‘So, what are you up to these days?’

‘Well, I actually had a little favour to ask.’

No you fucking can’t. Not now, not ever. And make sure you don’t call again. Even if you are in a corner somewhere bleeding. Just make sure I don’t hear about it.

‘Yea, sure. What can I do?’

And for the next eight minutes, he gave his ex a step-to-step guide on how to structure her essay, every minute hammering his dignity further into annihilation. When she suddenly had to go, his heart was stuck in his throat, his self-loathing overwhelming. He put his hand on the kettle waiting for the burn.

Fuck you Zach. Fuck you.