THE ANGST OF ALEX

  THE ANGST OF ALEX

 

The pervasive smell of sterile antiseptic filled the room like an uninvited guest, a memory best discarded to the dustbins. Alex sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers tracing the scars zigzagging across his abdomen: a stark reminder that the battles he fought were far from over. The doctor’s advice echoed in his mind like the persistent battering of the rain on the terrace's tin thatched roof, repeating themselves in an endless loop. “There’s a possibility of a third surgery. It’s not a matter of if but when.” He swallowed hard, his gaze shifting to the faint outline of a Father’s Day card drawn by a boy on the nightstand: a gift from his son, now gathering dust.

 

The room was dim, the only light from a zero-watt bulb engulfing the room in a golden haze. Alex’s thoughts were troubled, guilt-ridden, and tangled, making it impossible to find any semblance of peace. He reached for the card and glanced at the drawings and notes scribbled on it. His fingers traced the crayoned lines, each stroke a reminder of the time fleeting away: the time he could spend with his son. His son needed his guidance, but he was unable to provide it. He hoped he could set some form of example for him.

 

A voice, cold and bitter, skidded into his thoughts. “You think you can be a father like this? You have missed most of your son’s childhood. Pathetic.”

 

Alex flinched, his eyes darting to the corner of the room where five shadowy figures lingered, their form indistinct yet all too familiar. He knew these figures: the manifestations of his doubts, fears and failures. They were sucking the life and every bit of positivity out of him with their constant moaning, mocking and abuse. They had taken up residence in his mind rent-free, refusing to leave, mocking and insulting him at every turn.

 

“What do you want, for God’s sake?” Alex’s voice was a whisper, heavy with exhaustion. “Why can’t you just get out of my life and leave me alone?”.

 

The figures shifted, their presence sinister and oppressive. “You’re a weakling. You always have been. You couldn’t even protect yourself; now you want to protect your family. You are a stupid fool.”

 

Alex’s hands trembled, the Father’s Day card slipping from his grasp and fluttering to the floor. He swore and clenched his fists in anger as the figures provoked him to no end. In a desperate attempt, he tried to drown out their mocking voices. “I’m trying,” he wheezed, his face burning in anger, as he remembered a line from the Robbie Williams song: “I’m doing all I can to be a better man.”

 

“Are you?”. Another crazed female figure emerged, this one taller, its voice dripping with contempt. “You’re barely surviving. And now you are looking at another surgery, another scar to add to your ever-growing collection. You’ll never be whole”.

 

Alex shook his head, pressing his palms against his temples as if he could throttle the voices out of his head. “I try to keep myself happy in all circumstances. I want to be free from all these.”

 

“Happy?” the older crazed female’s laugh was a sharp edge, dicing through the air. “You don’t deserve happiness. You deserve every bit of pain you’re going through. And it’s not over yet.”

 

The words sank deep, forcing Alex to question himself and push him into a dark abyss of self-doubt. He had fought so hard and long against the injustice of his circumstances, against the physical pain, against the mental anguish, but it was never enough. He was never enough.

 

His thoughts drifted to his son, who gave him hope. He longed to be the father his son needed, be there for him, and watch him grow. But every time he tried to reach out to his son, the shadowy figures held him back. They unleashed a volley of abuses, their venomous words poisoning his resolve.

 

“I just want to be a good father to my son,” Alex whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t want him to miss the presence of a father like I did in my childhood. He needs me.”

 

The old shadowy figure loomed over him, its presence revolting like the sweet smell of weed. “You are not a father. You’re a failure. And you’ll always be one”.

 

Alex’s heart sank at the injustice and the weight of those cruel words crushing him. He had imagined that he would find happiness once he had survived the surgeries and overcame the injustices. But now, as he sat under the dim light, the reality sank in: he wasn’t as happy as he had imagined. The scars on his body were nothing compared to the wounds in his soul, wounds that no surgery could heal.

 

As the shadowy figures closed in, their shadows swallowing the room, Alex was forced to confront the bitter truth: happiness wasn’t something he could earn through sheer will or determination. It was still something that eluded him, a distant dream overshadowed by the relentless gang of demons that refused to let go.

 

As the night stretched on, Alex could only hope that one day he would find the strength to silence the voices for good, banish, and finally reclaim the happiness that had been mercilessly stolen from him. But tonight, as the darkness enveloped him, all he could feel was the cold and gnawing emptiness where his happiness should have been.