Ryan's Suffering

by Lloyd Paulson

She bucked wildly against the restraints that tied her to the chair, screaming against the duct tape, trying to buck the hand off from her lap.

  The School of Infinite Patience and Control

  This is the most horrific, painful, and final lesson in the School of Infinite Patience and Control. Endurance, above all else. Hauntingly, endurance is the only thing that matters.

  I woke up to my wife shaking me. I blinked several times, before I stared up at her. She smiled uncertainly at me." Time to get up. It’s 7:30."

  My head was pounding, and the blankets felt more like sheets of lead over me. I nodded, and watched her walk away. I threw her pillow over my head, and promptly fell asleep again. Bad idea.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was shaking me again. I tossed her pillow off my face, and glared up at her again. She gave me a slightly worried, faltering smile. "You okay? You have to be to work by 8:30."

  I nodded, feeling very fucking far from ok. I sat up, and waved her off. She stepped back, watching me carefully. I tried a smile on. It felt false. She left, and shut the door with a soft clock. I lay back on the pillows again, staring at the ceiling.

  I knew I had to get out of bed and go to work, but my brain was not cooperating with me. My friends were back. The two fuck sticks.

  It’s like a trinity within me when I am overly stressed. I seem to have a split personality, but not in the sense that you never know who I am today. I am not off in the land of the complete nut jobs, where I have independent personalities that have no understanding that the other personalities exist. My body was not a timeshare for separate personalities. I'm still the front seat driver of the party bus.

  It’s as if I have the calm, cool, and collected dude who sits in the back seat and gives solid advice to me. I call him Joe Cool. The temperamental guy in the passenger seat gets angry, sad, depressed, moody, and occasionally—if I am lucky—he has his good days too, but since he's a real son of a bitch, I call him SOB.

  Me? I am stuck in the middle of these two cock knockers most of the time. They're mainly around when I am having a rough time. In reality, they are all a part of me. It’s more of defense mechanism than anything else is. The other two knob jobs are just another way of dealing with things. When I am stressed, the world gets fuzzy around the edges, and they're there to help.

  This morning, the SOB in the passenger seat didn’t want to help me deal with anything. He was frazzled, and SOB thought I was better off staying in bed. Between the backyard visitor and bad dreams, we had enough bullshit, thank you very much.

  However, Joe Cool in the back seat was getting irritated. There were things to do, places to be. Regardless of how SOB felt, life goes fucking on. Therefore, I stared at the ceiling; letting the two motherfuckers argue it out in my head. I didn’t pick a side, but I was leaning towards staying in bed all day. Fuck the rest of the world. I was more annoyed that the idiots in the peanut gallery were back again. I wanted the Zen back from the night before, but it wasn’t going to fucking happen.

  Trish stomped back into the room. "It’s eight, and you are going to be late."

  I looked back up at her, and she looked both mad and worried. Her arms were crossed, and she was tapping her foot. Good thing she couldn’t hear the bickering inside of my head. I could hear both Joe Cool and the SOB say "Uh-oh," at the same fucking time, and the bickering was over for the moment.

  Neither of them wanted Trish pissed, and they knew she was there. I tossed the covers off me, and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my temples with my hands, wishing those two fuck wads inside my goddamned head would go away and leave me alone.

  Trish sat down next to me, and uncrossed her arms. "You sure you are going to be okay? You haven’t awoken, screaming like that in a long time. You were in the hospital not long after that last time."

  I looked over at her. She was staring at the wall, her eyes glistening slightly. I sighed. "I don’t know. We’ll have to see." It was as close to the truth as I could get with her at the time.

  She nodded, and patted my leg. "Coffee is ready when you are." She leaned over, and gently kissed my cheek before standing up.

  I shook my head to clear it, and watched her walk off. I could hear the sounds of cartoons blaring away downstairs. I plodded into the master bathroom.

  I heard Joe Cool tell the SOB, "I told you."

  SOB begrudgingly piloted my way through the morning routine of taking a whiz, getting dressed, getting coffee, and wandering out the door.

  I kissed my wife goodbye, hugging her fiercely. "Love you."

  She looked at me, openly concerned. "Love you too. Call me if you need to. I want you to be ok."

  I nodded, and plodded out the door towards the car. Nothing was ok, least of all me. It was about to get a fuck of a lot worse. Not as if she’d give a rat’s ass what happened to me by the end of the goddamned day. She probably prayed for my imminent demise when the sun set that night. Not that I can blame her one bit. Lord knows I never stopped loving her.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  The drive to work was horrendous. I was definitely off-kilter, and driving becomes a nerve-wracking rollercoaster nightmare in that state. On the days when I am out-of-whack, my judgment goes to fucking hell.

  It shows up first in my driving. What is normally routine and boring becomes a tough mental exercise. The world is peculiarly flat, like driving with one eye closed. Your sense of time becomes fucked, and your depth perception goes out the goddamned window too. When you can't tell how far away something is or how fast it is going, driving becomes a game of fucking chance, and the goddamned dice are loaded against you. Just a little more stress for the brew of fucked up shit in your head to start out your day.

  I pulled up to an intersection, and watched the cars going by on that weird flat movie screen of hyper-reality of fugue-fog. No hi-def LCD clarity for me. I knew I was having a grand-old rough time. I was watching the traffic carefully, as though staring owlishly at it would fix things. I could feel the dull thud of a headache getting ready to tune up and start a full on concerto. Luckily, that’s where my two hitchhikers in my head come into play. When I can’t do it, they help. They’re not useless, but they are oh so annoying to have along, as you will see.

  Joe Cool was dutifully reporting that yes, I could go. SOB had doubts, and so did I. The car behind me honked.

  SOB wanted to flip the guy the bird. Joe and I agreed that flipping the fucker off might be a bad idea. Mornings are not the best time to get our collective asses kicked, and all three of us agreed on that particular point, although SOB also suggested that there’s never a good time for getting our asses handed to us. I told SOB to stuff a fucking sock in it, and waited for Joe to tell me when I could safely pull out and go while the asshole behind us honked again as though he thought that honking was going to fucking help matters. When I heard Joe say go, I had my doubts but thought, "Fuck it," and stomped the gas anyway. I cringed, waiting for the sound of squawking tires and a horn that would inevitably end with a bang, a crunch, and the harsh tinkle of glass. So sorry, ossifer. Two beers. I swear. Only two beers. Oh wait, I wasn’t drinking. Fuck.

  Luckily, though, Joe’s timing was right—we didn’t cause an accident, at least—but I was still keyed up several fucking notches too high. I hated both of the bastards in my head at that moment. I turned on the radio, and cringed at the sound of the DJ and accompanying asswipe sidekick’s voice. Why can’t they shut the fuck up and spin some goddamned tunes in the morning? Christ. The same old mundane bullshit shtick every fucking morning. Barely concealed fart and dick jokes, mostly, and it’s a small wonder the FCC never fines their dumb asses. How the fuck can they be so chipper? Are they mainlining Starbucks from an IV while snorting coke off each other’s cocks? What in the bloody fucking hell?

  I hit the CD button on the radio, and violently twisted the volume knob all the way up. I was expecting heavy metal. Donald Duck Polka was what I heard, at top volume, and my heart hammered in time with the music. I tried
the scramble out of the front seat and into the backseat, straining against the seatbelt, and screaming in fear. The car swerved violently in the lane, and nearly hit a parked car.

  I punched the eject button. "GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING KIDS!" I yelled.

  "YOU KNOW," the male DJ with the deep voice screamed at me as I jerked the wheel violently in surprise and nearly took out an oncoming car, "THAT HAPPENED TO ME ONCE."

  "REALLY?" the female with the high-pitched Minnie Mouse-like voice shrieked. She laughed immediately afterwards. The sound was as if steel nails were being dragged across glass.

  I twisted the volume knob down again, hoping I was going to break the goddamned volume knob off and end this fucking audio nightmare. Then no one would ever listen to the ever-loving cock-sucking son-of-a-bitching goddamned radi-fucking-o again. Ever. Fuck ‘em. Joe was sitting in the backseat of my mind, laughing his ass off. "Fuck you, cocksucker…" I muttered as I searched for the right compact disc. I reached down to put it in the CD player, but cartoon characters were staring up at me from a compact disc hanging out of the radio. I grabbed it, and rolled down the window to toss it. Donald Duck, and Huey, Louie, and screwy or whoever the fuck the other midget duck is could all blow me.

  Both Joe and the SOB reminded me I would have to deal with both Trish and the children if I did that. I thought it was a good point, and put it in the CD sleeve on the visor instead. I reached over, and put in the music CD I wanted to listen to. I took a deep breath, and turned the volume only about half way up.

  As I looked back up, I saw brake lights ahead of me. I started to brake, thinking I had plenty of time. Joe Cool muttered something about a crash, and I really crammed down on the brakes, scared. The tires protested, and then the pedal started vibrating. Under the hood, I could hear the heavy metallic squawk of the anti-lock working to bring me to a controlled stop. I heard tires lock up behind me, and the wail of a horn. I cringed, but I didn’t hit the car in front of me, and the car behind me missed as well.

  I looked up at the car in front of me, as it turned left. It was an elderly lady, and she jammed a flabby arm out her window and shot me the finger as she pulled away screaming obscenities. I burst into tears. You are definitely having a bad day when grandma tells you to fuck off, and it's not even 9:00 am yet.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  People sometimes say I am a cold, heartless bastard, but I don’t believe that’s true. That’s life’s vicious sense of humor. Introverts often experience things intensely, and as a form of self-protection, they isolate themselves. To top it off, I was privileged to have him as a father. I shudder to think, why? The only answer that ever comes back from the Big G in the sky is this, though: Where were you when I made the world? Fuck me, Freddy.

  I was trained by the best. I probably have the world’s best poker face when I choose to, especially under stress. Self-delusion? Perhaps.

  When you are a worthless fucker, like me, it becomes your father’s job to whip your scrawny and pathetic ass into a proper and respectable shape. Somebody has to do it.

  You are a waste of time, space, money, and energy, and will never, ever amount to jack-fucking-shit. Some fathers cannot rise to this challenge. These weak fathers will just sit back and ignore the situation, and let their wayward sons languish in their erroneous ways. Such children will never amount to shit, let alone shinola.

  My father never backed off from a challenge. Another one of my personal faults, and I know exactly where I inherited that little gem of an asshole-like trait from.

  Learn to control your actions and emotions. The lesson was beaten mercilessly into me, and I will never be able to undo that lesson. I have learned to live with it. I had no choice.

  As a child, I hated my closet as much, if not more than I feared stairways.

  You’d hate closets too. My closet always smelled like piss. Bladder control always seemed to be a problem for me. I thought it was absolute proof of worthlessness, that it was just another incontrovertible indication of just how utterly hopeless I was. I always vowed I would control my bladder next time, but it never seemed to work no matter how desperate I was, and no matter how desperately I tried to avoid ending up in the closet, yet again.

  When you are only eight-years old, your ability to control fear and pain are limited. Endurance, like wisdom, can only be gained with experience. Hard experience. However, the full understandings of the implications are impossible to comprehend when you are that young. I don’t know if that knowledge would have helped, though. To know why you’ve lost control of your bladder—namely that it’s a fight-or-flight reaction over-riding basic biology in an eight-year old human’s body—probably would have been of little comfort to said eight-year old. That eight-year old's attention was occupied primarily with the excruciating pain that was causing the aforementioned fight-or-flight reaction. Especially when the whole fucking point of this lesson is to learn to dominate and control the fight-or-flight reaction. Never mind you’re always failing this rather simple goddamned lesson, by fucking design.

  These impossible lessons always started with something simple, yet the outcome was always terribly unavoidable and inevitable, like a brewing thunderstorm that everyone could see coming yet no one could avoid.

  In this case, I simply wanted to go outside and play on a Saturday afternoon. Such a simple, noble, honest-to-goodness goal, a pure Made-in-America goal, wasn’t it?

  My mom told me that I could go out and play after my room was clean.

  Therefore, I cleaned it obsessively, from top to bottom. I made sure the bed was made, and the toys were put away. I made sure that my desk was nice and neat, all the books were lined up, and all the pencils were put away. I looked under the bed, making sure nothing was hiding under there that would have caused me trouble. I checked the room as carefully as any eight-year old could.

  Then I double-checked. It was Saturday, HE was home, and HE was in a stormy and thundery mood. There hadn’t been any explosions yet, but everyone could see the storm front approaching.

  I triple checked the room. Then I sat on my bed, fidgeting, looking around. I rearranged the books on the bookshelf on top of my desk, trying to make them look neater. I finally settled on arranging them by size, from tallest to shortest. I sat on the bed again, feeling the tension building inside myself. I knew the risks, but it was too late, the stage had been set. I was obsessive about verifying perfection, I already knew how this would turn out, but maybe it could turn out differently. There's always that glimmer of hope, no matter how false, and you desperately grasp and clutch at it.

  I never should have asked to go outside, but there was no way out of this trap. I decided he might not decide to check my room, and if he did check, maybe I did a good enough job this time to pass inspection. It was a hope, however small, and so I desperately clutched at that glimmer. Do cows feel this way, in the slaughter chute? Their eyes rolling madly as they are led forward? I think so. Does their fear matter? Not any more than my hope did. It all just leads to darkness, in the end, doesn’t it?

  The problem was that he had been brooding all morning. I had tried to stay out of his way, but the hope I harbored wasn’t exactly well founded—more born of desperation, but either way, you’re gonna ride this motherfucker of a rollercoaster, whether you want to or not, so you find a way to strap in, close your eyes, and hang the fuck on. It’s the only way to cope. When you live in tyranny, you’ll grasp at any glimmer of insane hope, no matter how false.

  I shuffled out into the kitchen, trying to nonchalantly glide past him on my way through the living room. I mumbled to my mother. "My room is clean now."

  She turned, wiping her hand on a dishtowel, and smiled at me. "Well, then, you can go out and play now."

  I heard his voice from the living room, a voice of doom that said, "Wait."

  My stomach flooded with dread. I felt the fear and anxiety building inside my chest. My mother frowned, and then her face went blank as she turned back to the dishes. As far as she
was concerned, I was no longer there. She was as resigned as I was; the conclusion was foregone. The rest, unfortunately, is only aftermath. Terrible, inevitable, and inexorable. The rollercoaster train has departed the station.

  I sat down at the dining room table, and waited. I reviewed my room in my head, trying to remember if I might have missed something. Clickety-clack, motherfucker. Once you start climbing that big-ass fucking hill, there's no way off. I felt like crying and sobbing, but fidgeted nervously instead. Maybe I'd pass muster this time.

  My mother wouldn’t look back at me. He face remained carefully neutral as she stared out the kitchen window for a few minutes. She already knew what was coming; she'd sensed his mood, same as I. It was too late. There was no hope; there could have been no consolation. It was inevitable. My mom resumed washing the dishes, humming to herself and pointedly ignoring me. I was being coldly denied by my own mother, and I never felt more alone. That, more than anything else, told me what I already knew anyway, but didn’t want to face. There wasn’t any hope. I had been fooling myself. The tipping point is coming. Scream all you want, motherfucker, you're going to ride this bitch to the end.

  Finally, he appeared in the doorway and stared at me for a few minutes. "Come here."

  I felt my stomach twist into a knot, and I stared at the floor as I stood up from the table. I refused to look at him. He said nothing, turned and strode towards my bedroom. I followed, shuffling my feet. He stood in the doorway of my bedroom, and I slipped past him and sat on the edge of my bed. He stared at me for several minutes, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.

  I was resigned to my fate, and I waited patiently for the lecture to begin. I was to be the afternoon’s entertainment; he was planning to get his money’s worth.

  This was his classroom. I was his only pupil, though the whole house would be listening closely. They’d pretend not to hear, but they’d hear plenty. He was going to guide me; he was going to educate me. I was enrolled in the School of Infinite Patience and Control. Failure to listen to the lesson had never been an option. I was going to be tested until I passed. What I didn't know then was that every test was rigged—I would never pass. He would make sure of that. He stood in the doorway and stared for several long minutes that dragged out to nearly quarter of an hour. This was part of the lesson.