Bathroom Monologue: He’s got the patience for it

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He’s been down here many times. Not this particular hole, but holes this deep, and deeper. His greatest talent is falling.

Birds or bugs circle overhead. His depth perception is shot and he can’t tell. He closes his eyes, not minding.

So his spine won’t let him sit up. So his arms might be broken. So his toes won’t curl on cue. He breathes once every ten seconds and sweats this not at all. He can wait, because his greatest talent is falling, or having fallen. Patience lets him get up when he can.

Did someone throw him in this hole? Then in a week he’ll rise, thirsty as sin. The only urge that gets to him in these times is thirst. He’ll drink his fill from a cool pitcher, waiting in that pusher’s dark living room. He’ll make things even. They’ll fall together. And when he’s ready, he’ll get up.

For now he has fits of shakes. For now it feels like steam is trying to escape through his pores. It might be shock or infection. It will pass. It always does.

If this next time he passes instead of the immobility? Then he’ll have out-waited pain itself. He’ll fall into whatever lies after life, and when he’s ready, he’ll get back up again. He’s got the patience for it.