Mack didn't want to wake up on Sunday morning. His wife felt emotionally distant, his kids felt even further away, and the skinny punk he hooked up with last night had told him to go to hell, nearly annihilating his apartment door as he left. If not for his job, which he loved, his life might as well be over. The emo kid wasn't important to him, they barely knew each other, but even so, last night's parting monologue cut him like a knife. He thought about all the things in his life he'd given up by moving out to 'experiment'. He'd made a terrible mistake. If he died in his sleep, his transmigratory soul would probably have been happy. He was glad he didn't have a dog to walk or a cat to feed.
Everything was fucked beyond belief. The sinking feeling in his stomach, floating like a bitter pill of intense sadness, wouldn't go away.
He woke up at sunrise, but it was just to take a piss. His bladder was full. He staggered to the bowl and made aim. He leaned against the wall, nearly falling asleep again mid-stream. He shook his dick, washed his hands, and sleepwalked back to bed. His tired eyes squinted against the light pouring in, but all he wanted right now was darkness. Stopping at the kitchen sink, he gulped a litre of water straight from the tap. Retreating into his bedroom, he pulled the blinds down as far as they'd go and draped the cotton sheet back across his frame. The concept of 'being alive' wasn't doing very much for him.
The city outside was quiet.
He woke up again around ten, his bladder having refilled. He'd had a bad dream and woke up drenched in sweat. He couldn't remember what the dream was about, but it felt like he'd been adrift on the ocean, alone, with no sight of land, and no hope of survival. He carried the desperately sad feelings of isolation and helplessness from his nightmare into his waking day. He got up, pissed again, and went back to bed.
By now, Brisbane was alive outside his window, but the mechanic's only goal was to lie silently on his mattress, alone, in the dark, breathing. He wasn't even remotely hungry. His appetite was dead.
Sleep was escape. Sleep was the only way he could keep his thoughts, feeling and emotions at bay. Sleep was silence.
He knew he wouldn't speak with anyone until he went to work tomorrow.
This wasn't just a bad day. This was depression, though the mechanic didn't know it, and even if he did, he would've refused to admit it. Like a solitary man floating on a raft, too many things felt uncertain. He'd lost his direction. He didn't know who he was anymore. He felt like an explorer who'd lost sight of the north star.
If he'd been more in touch with himself, he would've realised that the emo's vicious words weren't the cause of his current mood, though perhaps they were the straw that finally broke the camel's back.
Instead, he told himself to grow a pair and snap out of it.
*
Mack should never have gone to work on Monday morning. All he wanted from the day was a task to occupy his mind, and some company to break the silent monotony of his four rented walls. He wanted someone to talk to, but he had nothing much to say.
He was a shadow of his former self. His feet dragged when he walked, and he looked like he hadn't eaten or showered in a week. His cheery can-do disposition had seemingly evaporated overnight, leaving an empty shell of a man in its place.
His workmates knew he'd recently separated from his wife, difficult terrain to navigate. Something bad must've taken place on the weekend with his wife, they assumed, it was obvious in his demeanour. Perhaps they'd had a fight, they wondered, or perhaps they agreed to get a divorce, but nobody wanted to pry. Mack would talk when he was ready.
Obviously, none of his colleagues had any idea what had actually occurred on the weekend, but the bottom line was the mechanic was in no state to work. His boss should've sent him home, ideally, via his doctor, but that didn't happen.
And so it was that the mechanic was under the bonnet of a 1983 Commodore station wagon, his mind barely functioning, when the metal tool he held in his right hand slipped, piercing the thumbnail on his left, grinding to a halt against the bone.
He looked down, almost curiously, at the pool of blood quickly forming on his thumbnail before watching it flow over, cascading down his wrist, dripping dull burgundy blotches on the concrete garage floor. For a moment, he felt like he was watching the accident happening to someone else. "I've cut myself," he said, barely registering any pain.
His boss came running over. He took a quick look at the deep cut and winced. One of his colleagues was the garage's first aid officer. He cleaned the wound as best he could before wrapping a tight bandage around it. The bloodletting slowed, but the mechanic's thumb was a hideous mess.
"You need to go to the emergency room," his boss said. "Come on, I'll drive you." Mack waved the offer away, preferring to go alone. "Then call me when you've arrived," said his boss, clearly worried about his dependable co-worker and loyal friend.
Mack drove to the hospital with nine functioning digits gripping the steering wheel. He caught every single red light. A trickle of blood snaked down his arm, dripping on his pants.
He checked in with the triage nurse; she mopped up the excess blood and quickly redressed his cut. He parked his arse on an uncomfortable plastic seat. He knew he'd be sitting here for hours: public hospitals in Australia are ridiculously understaffed. He looked up at the tiny TV screen in the corner of the waiting room. An American soap opera was on. He didn't know what it was called, but all those soap operas look the same. The woman in the current scene was hot. He'd plough her for sure. She reminded him of his wife. He told himself he wasn't gay.
The pain began to arrive thick and fast now. His skull pounded and his thumb throbbed violently. At least he knew he was alive, because dead people don't feel pain.
Eventually, after time had slowed to a complete standstill, his name was called and a nurse saw him. She unwrapped the bandage, disinfected his thumb, and after applying a local anaesthetic, she removed the nail completely. Mack didn't feel a thing. The nurse told him his thumbnail would grow back again within a month. She bandaged him up again, gave him a box of heavy-duty painkillers, and sent him on his way.
The nurse was hot. Her rack was massive, and her juicy, freckled cleavage was on full display. He stared at it while she worked on his thumb. He would've loved to jam his fat cock between her tits, fucking them hard before firing his thick seed all over her neck and chin. He should've asked for her number. No way was he gay.
Mack drove himself home from the hospital and opened the door to his stuffy apartment. His thumb was throbbing again, and he popped two of the painkillers the nurse gave him. He messaged his boss, discovering it isn't easy to text with only one functioning thumb. He apologised, explaining what happened -- he couldn't work again until his thumb healed. His boss understood completely. He texted his wife and told her what had happened today. She called him immediately, worried, wondering why her husband didn't ring her from the hospital. Sure, they might be separated, she said, but they'd shared a life together, and she still cared for him.
Mack had no response to offer. The simple truth was he didn't think of her at all at the time of his accident, but he didn't want to tell her that. It'd make him feel even more isolated and alone than he already was.
