Ejected from the sordid, yet organized halls of the Psyche Ward, Malcolm Steadman now found himself back at his sordid, and chaotic apartment. The apartment smelled of rot and dust. It was good to be home.

The unfinished breakfast (bacon and eggs) that Malcolm was eating nearly a week prior had been quietly decaying on his table. Save for the indecent act of entropy his food had taken up, the rest of the apartment was exactly as he left it. The fact that his house looked crazier than a psyche ward was very alarming, but at this moment there would be little to be done about it. Paying no mind to the dirtied and stained jigsaw puzzle on his floor, Malcolm briskly walked over to his old breakfast and tossed it in his trash bin. He then sat down.

The last time he was in this chair was when he waited in agonizing fear for the authorities to show up at his door after he called the suicide hotline.

Oh memories.

For the sake of his own sanity he knew that he would have to make a bigger effort in cleaning, but right now, Malcolm was content to just be outside of the psyche ward and sitting at home. Yes, the jigsaw puzzle that mirrored his fractured mind would have to be put away. Yes, the old beer bottles housing generations of flies would have to go. The dirty footprints of a wild and broken man pacing manically across the kitchen floor? That too would have to go. Right now, it could wait.

Malcolm Steadman was home. For now, that was enough.

Malcolm unwrapped the breakfast burrito he bought at his favorite fast food joint on his way home. It would be his first breakfast that was not a sugary cereal this week. As he bit into it, he found a new appreciation for silence as his apartment lacked Air Wolf set at maximum volume. It was probably solitude that got him into the psyche ward, but nothing sounded better than solitude right now.

Leaving that awful place was not something he thought would happen today. Though he knew his suspicions about never leaving were paranoid, a significant part of him thought he would never see the outside again. One day he would wake up to find Nurse Ratchet and the Chief at the foot of his bed next to large orderlies preparing to drill a hole in his head. That would be that. Instead, Malcolm woke to find paperwork that needed to be filled and a sunny day waiting for him outside. Malcolm actually left with more than he had arrived with: a recommendation to a therapist, a prescription for antidepressants, a “work book” for dealing with suicidal thoughts, and the phone number of a suicidal junkie and his pregnant teenage girlfriend. Life was grand. It was quite the care package.

If Malcolm had company (god forbid) he would probably blame the tears streaking down his cheeks on the hot sauce he had belligerently slathered on his burrito, but in truth, he was happy. Happy, and relieved. Life was no better than it had been before he dialed the suicide hotline, in fact it might just be worse, but he was home now. His home.

He never wanted something like that to happen again. The past days’ traumas were of course self inflicted. All he had to do was to never dial the hotline again, and now that he had access to a therapist the need to so vanished. Sure, his situation was no different there, he could not afford a therapist (hence the manic need for a hotline), but now he was already up to his neck in medical debt. What did more debt matter at this point?

There was no reason for him to put himself through that again, but there was a reason he did it in the first place. During his time in the psyche ward, Malcolm mostly focused on how miserable the experience was. Now, back at the start, he was starting to realize just why it had happened in the first place. The degradation of Malcolm’s sanity was a gradual one. Though the episodes of philosophical panic attacks made for dramatic red-flags to the fragility of his sanity, the actual changes in his attitudes and mental state were more subtle. It was gradual enough that no real internal objections were raised when he decided to get drunk, call a suicide hotline for any reason other than suicide and then plan to look for a job. The fact of the matter, whether he realized it at the time or not, was that the call was definitely one for help.

Malcolm’s burrito was getting cold.

Did he get help? Malcolm had isolated himself and built an odd sort of prison around him. His home had become poisonous. Trapped away from human interaction and the outside world, the place that was supposed to keep him safe actually became detrimental to him. At the zenith of his isolation, and at the peak of his poisoned mind, Malcolm Steadman unwittingly made a literal call for help in the most dramatic way possible. Malcolm did get help. He was torn away from his toxic cocoon.

Now he was back.

So much had he pined for the comforts of his own walls. It appeared now, however, that those very walls were choking him. His place of respite, his place of refuge and of safety? He had corrupted it. In turn, it had corrupted him. That was the last thing he wanted. His apartment should be a home.

Malcolm took a deep breath. Either he was building a natural immunity to his constant introspection, or his time at the ward had temporarily numbed him to it. He was not panicking. This was something he could actually change.

Malcolm finished his burrito.

Malcolm had a choice: he could go back to the way things were, or he could change it. It was really that simple. Malcolm would make his apartment a home. For now on, his sanctuary will be a healthy place to be. When things degraded, when filth piled up and jigsaws became gonzo he would notice. He would correct it. He would make his environment better, and thus he could better himself.

No one could ruin it but himself. He would make his apartment his home, and no one could take that away from him. He would treat it well, respect it, and in turn respect and treat himself well.

No one could take that away from him.

Malcolm Steadman will be homeless in 84 days.

Like what you read? let me know by voting for Existential Terror and Breakfast on Top Web Fiction! It’s one of the fastest ways to bring in other readers

Want to be notified of when the next chapter is out? Check out the bottom of the page for a free copy of my black comedy comic, “Kick The Football, Chuck” when you sign up for updates.

The post Existential Terror and Breakfast: 23 appeared first on revfitz.com.