Round 3: Sweetes S.I.N. vs Synecdoche

Shattered

Song: Buwan by Juan Karlos Labajo

Team: Synecdoche 

The air in his room suddenly becomes cool and somehow wrong. It smelled a combination of strong antiseptics that he's never accustomed: Lysol, alcohol, ammonia, pungent brew of germicidal substances unpleasant to make his eyes water. He drew a long breath. As Maureen stepped out from the shower, her legs shaved, he walked unsteadily to the center of the room, and stood there in fear and confusion.

Tracing circles round her navel, she teased. Undo her red-laced panties while sexy-swaying to the jazz, then slowly she slipped her right middle finger inside her, intently touching herself while seductively staring at him.

He longed for her. For this. To taste what was in between those creamy thighs. To sap out the saliva in her mouth while going deeper into her, and pin her against the wall while crushing those spongy breasts with his wide hands. But as she walked inch by inch closer to him, suddenly he can barely breathe... It's as if his lungs were gradually filled by a mucky substance and his trachea was being sandwiched in a hydraulic press. Panting like a cow he whimpered like he's damaged.

"Out! Get out of my house!"

Sharp pain, crackled the length of his throat and brought a stinging flood of tears to his eyes. It was always like this. A film on repeat. Every time he lets someone in, a woman for instance, to try to touch him, his breathing constricts. His exhaustion, and his depression at the prospect of perpetual loneliness were so grave that he didn't reject the idea that he would've done only a day ago. He has no past nor future. The only thing he remember was his name and his recurring dreams of a woman. A woman. He can't even get a woman under his pants!

In the darkness, like a penitent reverently fingering rosary beads, Greg counted pills.

Thirty-two.

Now the choice was simpler yet far more profound. Thirty-two. Surely enough for a long sleep.

Outside, the wind fluted through the clusters of trash barrels, playing them as though they were organ pipes, producing a crude, hollow, ululant, unearthly music.

----

"I want to remember what I've done after that."

"And what exactly is the last thing you remember, Greg?"

"Waking."

"And then?"

He sighed in frustration. He should've just gone to a physical therapist. He looked at his watch: 4:30. Sabrina may be waiting for him, or is it Korinne, Chloe? Who knows? He just felt like somebody is waiting for him. Months ago eversince Leo found him, a guy from across the street, he magically had scheduled appointments with Dr. Nafari.

"I feel like I'm stuck."

His eyes burned. He felt as though enumerable lead weights encumbered his limbs.

"You are living in a nightmare Greg. I want you to focus."

"No, it's not a nightmare. It feels so real, like I'm trapped," he closed his eyes, grimaced at the memory. "It's killing me."

"Greogory, focus."

"Okay."

"Shall we continue where we left off?"

"Okay."

"Now let's begin the regression therapy."

The afternoon was giving way to evening. The low clouds were as dark as slate and the sky looked too hard to be a home of any but malevolent gods. The psychiatrist brought him slowly back to the past. Dr. Nafari was careful and conscientious.