He slowly lifted his head from over the white porcelain orbit and collapsed, supported by the smooth paleness of the bathtub. Craning his neck towards the supposed heaven that had failed him once again, he released a cry that was more a gush of pure vocalized anguish. His whole body felt weakened, so his arms and legs were uncooperative in his efforts to rise. This was a position he did not enjoy being in, but felt compelled to be in anyway.

It was unnecessary for him to look at himself in the scrubbed white tiles to know what he looked like at this moment. The characteristics were distinct. The green eyes turned red and watery. The hair tousled and matted with sweat. The sides of his fleshy mouth dribbling bits of vomit. He didn’t look, but just turned on the tap in the tub and rinsed off his face.

The toothbrush which had been rammed halfway down his throat less than two minutes before was now on the floor, coated in drying spittle. Its presence alone was almost mocking him. The innocence of its normal function trivializing the purpose for which he put it to use. The white of the room beat down on him, blinding him. It was a struggle for him simply to keep his eyes open against the glare.

Finally he felt clean, purged for the moment of all the things that had been preying upon his emotions. The love that was denied him spouted from his throat and was sucked into the abysmal depths of the sewers. For now, he was finally in control of some part of his life, even if that part was as small as his digestion.

For that moment, he felt an odd sense of completion. If things could not fall into place for him, he could make his stomach just as empty as his heart and his head to even things out. In this, there would be some congruence. He lifted the toothbrush from the ground and reinserted it into his throat, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to spasm, gagging.

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