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 Videll Dais/New Story

   Breakdown Part 1

   By Videll Dais

   The doctor looked at me across a mahogany desk the size of the Oval
cricket ground, his expression like the tone of his voice was, to put it
mildly, detached.  "I'm sorry Mr.  Bishop.  The results are conclusive." I
felt the blood drain from my face, pool somewhere around my kneecaps.  I
swallowed, my mouth and throat suddenly drier than the Gobi.  "How long
have I got?" "I'd say six months at the outside.  Depending on medication,
mental attitude, a positive outlook and all that, could be a bit longer."
"Great," I said.  "What d'you suggest I do now?" The doctor remained silent
a minute, eyes downcast, idly playing with a gold pen, rolling it between
his long, spindly fingers.  I watched the pen spin, flash sunlight, and
thought, Jesus, he'll still be writing prescriptions with that when I'm
dead and gone.  Dead.  Gone.  The words reverberated around the inside of
my head.  I made an effort to still my thoughts, but it was nigh on
impossible.  My brain, at least the part not diseased, spun with dizzying
confusion.  I felt close to tears.  Pull yourself together, Bishop, I
silently told myself.  This is no time to get all morbid and self-pitying.
At last, the doctor spoke: "You could opt for chemo," he said, his voice
flat, unemotional.  "Mind you, I won't beat about the bush.  The treatment
can - and often does - have some pretty drastic side effects; makes you
pretty damn sick to be honest.  I can't speak for the quality of life you'd
be left with.  The end result is guaranteed, though.  There is no cure. 
But the choice is yours." I said nothing, stared out the window at the
brilliant pink blossom of a cherry tree, the neatly trimmed verdant lawns
with their weeded, almost regimentally squared borders.  For some
inexplicable reason the colours appeared more vivid, more indelible, than
ever before.  "Take a few days to think it over, Mr.  Bishop.  I'll go
along with whatever you decide." Of course you will, I thought.  For the
kind of dosh I'm paying you'd go along with anything.  I stood and extended
my hand.  We shook.  The doctor held my grip for what I thought was longer
than really necessary.  "For what it's worth, Mr.  Bishop, I am sorry.  If
I were you, I'd put my affairs in order, then go and do all the things
you've wanted to do but never got around to.  Enjoy yourself.  Make the
most of the precious time you have left." "Thank you, doctor," I said.  "I
appreciate all you've done.  I doubt you'll be seeing me again.  Goodbye."
I stepped out into the bright spring sunshine and moved among the busy
shopping crowds as if in a trance, separated, enveloped by an air of almost
surreal unreality.  Jack Bishop, I thought, dead man walking.

   * * *

   I was in the bar by six that same day.  I ran through a whole gamut of
emotions as well as a bottle of JD and several beers.  By ten, the barman
politely suggested I'd had more than enough and asked if he could order me
a cab.  When I got home, I ignored my wife.  Angelina and I had been
ignoring each other for the past three years.  I saw no reason to change
the routine.  My 13 year-old daughter, Adina, was another matter.  I crept
into her room and, without waking her, lay down on the bed beside her,
cuddled her in my arms and silently cried myself to sleep.  The next day,
as the doctor had suggested, I put my house in order.  Well, I made a start
anyway.  I checked my savings (and was pleasantly surprised), ditto my
insurances, and Adina's trust fund.  When the finance was up to date and
sorted, I phoned my boss - a grade A arsehole whom I'd never liked or
respected - and told him to stick his job right up there where the sun
doesn't shine.  Up to that moment, I'd been one of the top programmers in
the IT game.  My boss didn't like it much, naturally, but it certainly
brightened my day.  I actually laughed as I put the phone down on his
hysterical ranting.  About two pm, I decided it was time for a little light
refreshment.  Angelina was wherever Angelina spent her days and Adina was
at school.  I had the house to myself, so why not?  I got to thinking about
my life, and what to do with what was left of it.  As it happened, the
light refreshment got out of hand and by three I'd done another half bottle
of Jacky D, bless him.  Jack and I had had a long standing relationship,
but I don't believe we'd ever been quite so intimate or intense about it.
When Angelina came through the door around three-thirty, she was not
amused. What's new, I thought.  Then we got into it.  The questions and
hysterics came quick and fast: Why wasn't I at work?  What did I think I
was doing getting drunk in the middle of the day?  Did I have no sense of
responsibility?  Did I have no sense at all?  I took it as I usually did,
in silence, for about ten minutes.  I then told her in no uncertain terms
to shut the fuck up.  I'd never spoken to her like that in my life and
certainly had never used foul language in her presence.  She was so stunned
she immediately buttoned her lip and stared at me dumbfounded.  After a
minute or two, she found her second wind.  "What did you say?" "You heard
me, Angelina.  Shut the fuck up.  You want a divorce, right?  That's all
you've been on about for the past eighteen months, so I figure it's time I
did a deal with you.  Have a drink and sit down." Aghast, Angelina began
another onslaught.  "Don't speak to..." I held up a finger.  "Don't make me
repeat myself or, by God, I'll put you over my knee and give your shapely
arse a tanning like you wouldn't believe.  You won't be able to sit down
again this side of fucking Christmas." Angelina's jaw dropped. 
"Wha?...I...I" "Shut it!  Now!" She sat on the sofa, mouth agape,
gobsmacked.  "That's better," I said, pouring another large one.  I poured
Angelina her usual vodka tonic.  "Now perhaps I can say my piece without
interruption.  When did we last make love?" Angelina looked at me, baffled.
"Pardon?" "I said, when did we last fuck?" "A-are you mad?" "Answer my
question." "I don't know.  I can't remember." "Exactly.  Neither can I. 
That's going to change.  In fact, there's going to be a whole lot of
changes around here.  You be a good little wife and perform your marital
duties to the best of your ability for the next six months, I'll give you a
divorce.  No arguments.  No quibbles.  And I'll foot the bill." "You can't
be serious." "Believe me, I'm serious.  To prove it we're going to start
right now." I stood in front of her, close, and unzipped my fly.  "I'm
feeling really horny and want you to suck my cock." Angelina's face paled.
One thing she'd never liked, and always refused me, was oral sex.  "You're
drunk." "So?" "I absolutely refuse.  I won't do it." "Listen, my beautiful
wife, you do it now and willingly, or I'll make you do it." "Don't be
ridiculous, Jack.  You can't force me to do what I don't want to do - in
bed or out." "No?  We'll see.  I'll ask you one more time: Will you suck my
cock?" Ignoring my question, refusing to be in the least little bit
intimidated, Angelina flicked a lock of blonde hair from her ice-cool blue
eyes and stood up.  "I'm going to take a shower and change, Jack," she
said. "I hope by the time I come down, you will have sobered up and come to
your senses." I could see Angelina was enraged; beautifully cool and
controlled, yes, but absolutely full-on livid.  I watched her go upstairs,
her curvy hips, shapely buttocks, and long long legs taunting me, making my
semi-hard prick twitch in my underwear.  I finished my bourbon.  Ok bitch,
I thought, you don't want it the easy way, looks like I'm going to have
teach you the hard way.  In my study, well hidden from Angelina's prying
eyes, I had a few things I'd recently collected together.  I'd been
harbouring odd fantasies of late - some quite extreme - and, without really
knowing why, I'd ordered up some stuff from a mail order sex catalogue: a
blindfold, some light but very strong restraints, a couple of vibrators of
different sizes, some nipple clamps and KY jelly all in a nifty little
case. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this day would be
coming and had unconsciously been preparing for it.  Case of goodies in
hand, I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a while listening to the
shower running.  The more my hasty plan formulated, took shape in my
diseased mind, the more excited I became.  A warm glow tingled my groin,
made my heart beat quicker.  If I was drunk, I didn't feel it.  What I felt
was years of sexual denial coming to a head, reaching boiling point.  Right
bitch, I thought, as I slowly mounted the stairs, every dog has his day. 
Looks like ol' Jack's time has come.

   * * *