Shock Therapy
by
Bret Crowle
My first love was a boy who steam cleaned rugs for fun, had a mental breakdown at twenty-four and pulled his teeth out one by one. I counted the steps as my feet carried me. White tile illuminated by fluorescent lighting, laced with brown flecks. They begged me not to crush them with the soles of my shoes.
I did because I had to.
Found him pumped full of Xanax, my reward was a gummy smile. Hospital gown flushed against his skin, hard to know where the flesh began. Only tell was the fresh stripe of orange juice staining the front, a treasure trail to the pool sitting in his lap.
“I couldn’t decide if pliers or just hitting shit would work better.” He went with the pliers. That was what he told the nurse upon his arrival. The message was passed on to me with a smile just as toothless as his was.
After his well-deserved stay in the psych ward, we moved in together.
“This guy who bunked with me would only eat applesauce,” he said. “One in the morning, one at noon, last one was 9:56 before lights out. Don’t ask why, can’t tell you. That’s the stuff you see in there.” Words gummed out of his mouth, was a strain to understand what he said. The dentures hadn’t come in quite yet.
Once, he asked me how much I thought the electricity bill would be if someone was electrocuted. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t know. Instead, “Guess it depends if it’s on purpose or not.”
He didn’t live to meet Halloween. Fuzzy black spiders, courtesy of my mom, hung in our flat. Bats sat on the windowsills, couldn’t help but think about how backwards it seemed.
I often wondered what the answer to his question was. Thankfully, my father offered to pay October’s electricity bill, I needed a new toaster.
I did because I had to.
Found him pumped full of Xanax, my reward was a gummy smile. Hospital gown flushed against his skin, hard to know where the flesh began. Only tell was the fresh stripe of orange juice staining the front, a treasure trail to the pool sitting in his lap.
“I couldn’t decide if pliers or just hitting shit would work better.” He went with the pliers. That was what he told the nurse upon his arrival. The message was passed on to me with a smile just as toothless as his was.
After his well-deserved stay in the psych ward, we moved in together.
“This guy who bunked with me would only eat applesauce,” he said. “One in the morning, one at noon, last one was 9:56 before lights out. Don’t ask why, can’t tell you. That’s the stuff you see in there.” Words gummed out of his mouth, was a strain to understand what he said. The dentures hadn’t come in quite yet.
Once, he asked me how much I thought the electricity bill would be if someone was electrocuted. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t know. Instead, “Guess it depends if it’s on purpose or not.”
He didn’t live to meet Halloween. Fuzzy black spiders, courtesy of my mom, hung in our flat. Bats sat on the windowsills, couldn’t help but think about how backwards it seemed.
I often wondered what the answer to his question was. Thankfully, my father offered to pay October’s electricity bill, I needed a new toaster.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
