He hangs up the phone after failing to have a real conversation with his uncle. Again. His psychiatrist tells him that they have things to discuss; that it would be helpful to have his uncle come in on one of the sessions so that he can hear about Young Levant’s father, his brother. His uncle will never agree to that.

Maybe the old man already knows these things.

Maybe he feels the same way.

Maybe. Maybe, Maybe.

The only definites that Young Levant feels he has in life are that he hates his father, he is a failure, and he will die. And he will be taking others with him.

He’s in bed. He has been most of the morning. Fully dressed from the night before, perhaps even the one before that. He takes very little notice of time dwindling away. He chooses to immerse himself somewhere within the blur.

And he knows that it must smell in that room, but he’d have to get up, go outside and then come back to truly understand the extent of his wallowing.

The inside of his mouth feels like moss. His teeth are coated in something matte in texture. And his hair appears almost black due to grease. He deals with this by pulling the duvet over his head.

This isn’t how he wants to look when he dies.

That would be pathetic.

Everything inside is telling him to get up and just how easy that will be, but he can’t force himself. He can’t tear himself away from the comfortable filth in which he resides. He understands that it seems stupid. That he knows how he feels and how it affects anyone he comes into contact with. That he gets it is wrong and he is doing it to himself. That he could stop feeling this way if he really wanted. He even knows when and why and how it started.

It’s not chemical imbalance.

It’s not hereditary.

It’s technique.

That’s what his psychiatrist tells him. He can teach Young Levant how to cope if that is what he truly desires.

It’s Friday. It’s his last day. He has to get up. He needs to clean himself up, wash his hair and body with something that smells like aloe vera or coconut, spray it, brush his teeth and swig some mouthwash. He has to look his best. He can’t look pitiful or deplorable or worthless.

He’s the one you can see in the picture.

He stands out from the rest.

The other eight that he takes with him.

He doesn’t really want to die.

None of them do.

That’s how it works.

That’s why they have to go.

With his head under the covers, wrapped in his own stench, smothered in neglect, he thinks of his uncle and whether they’ll ever have that much-needed conversation.