The Burned Child

There was a lump in his throat. Of all the times, he could have gotten one - when giving a report to his teachers or a speech to the student body, the fates had chosen him to get an itchy lump in his throat when he was to speak of a loved one - a dead loved one, to boot. He made that huffy little 'a-a-hem' tone twice and even rubbed his throat, fingers over his adams apple but no, to no vail would the lump disappear. His father had left the casket and now it was definitely Ira's turn to take the stand. Voices were muffled and distorted and the view - oh my, the view - the scenery was blurry.

Who were - are - these people? They aren't fa--familiar, no, not to me. he tripped over his words, even in his own mind. Each face was blended with another.

Get over it, there wasn't any time for these games, right now. And he was right - there absolutely was not time for any mental malfunctions. And the doctor said herself, all he needed to do was repel these sights and they would be on their way and if he couldn't, there were always the pills.

Oh, the pills, They jingled in his pockets, seeming to taunt him. Each one whispering little words of discouragement. You need me, you can't survive without me. I'm the only reason you're still stable.

"Stable. What is stable?" Only a fraction of a whisper.
"Ira - you're on, hurry up!"

He didn't think, he didn't pause - he only did as instructed. The casket was closed - and thank god it was. Ira was already having some sort of breakdown from the atmosphere itself. Seeing his mothers dead body all covered with make-up and her favorite old dress would only further the situation. One two three, inhale exhale inhale. One two three, exhale.

They're waiting, hotshot. Speak up. Ira didn't know this one. He shook his head. He'd deal with it later, now wasn't the time.

"I loved my mother." True. "She was so nice - sincere." False. "She was always there when I needed her." False. "And she was very... thoughtful. She cared so much about me..." True--False? Ira couldn't tell anymore. When she was alive, he was certain they had a solid loving relationship but now? No, it was one-sided. Ira was her son but other than that, only another obstacle. Just something to be controlled and manipulated. Every part of Ira's speech was carefully thought out. He loved her - the operative word being 'loved.' He couldn't say he loved her anymore. As far as he was concerned, she was the reason he was such a...

disaster area. No, Ira didn't recognize this one but he spoke every thought Ira was afraid to confront. He must be destroyed.

"I'm sorry, I don't feel well. Please, excuse me." He shuffled through the few people in his way - he still couldn't make out faces. Their bodies were there and quite intact but those faces - though how blurry they were, they each seemed to be smiling. Ever so cheerily. Ira crashed into the bathroom, fumbling with the lock once inside. He didn't bother with a mirror; if movies had taught him anything, the mirror was the source of the apex of a breakdown. His father wouldn't be disappointed with his collapse, no but his mother would. Dead? Yes. But she was watching. Already disappointed in his behavior.

Ira cracked open the Tegretol - one, two, popped them. Next bottle - Serafem, one, two, swallow. Oh, was he still there? Ira waited. Maybe he only appeared when his thoughts warranted it. What was it, what triggered him? No time to guess - his audience awaited.