Standard Migraines

Roy was most definitely losing his mind.

Watching rom-coms for four hours straight directly after a severely traumatic experience had proven to be a very poor decision. Jen's high-pitched cackling tormented him as though it was the moaning of his own mother masturbating, and the movies they were watching were so poorly written and strangely shot that it felt like Roy was frying away his brain cells in a pan of LSD. Not to mention that Jen's flat reeked of cigarette smoke, which was so strong and suffocating that it made him feel numb and dizzy all over. This terribly frightening environment, coupled with the anxiety and occasional flashbacks associated with PTSD, made what was originally meant to be a relief from the day's events an extremely stressful and horrifying experience for Roy.

The bowl of popcorn in his lap was sliding over to one side, but Roy was so frozen stiff with overstimulation that he could only stare at it and wait for the tiny kernels to spill and topple over into the crevices of the couch cushions.

"Isn't this HILARIOUS, Roy?!" Jen guffawed, turning to him and revealing yellow half-chewed popcorn mush wedged between her teeth and tongue. "Isn't the music just wonderful?"

Roy stared at the screen. He was having a hard time seeing—he could only focus on one tiny thing at a time, like a dancer's head on the screen or the volume button on the telly. Maybe this was one of the migraine symptoms his mother often experienced—the dreaded tunnel vision. She only got it bad during her time of the month. Oh God. Aunt Irma was visiting him again! Roy was turning into a woman!

"Agh," he cried out quietly.

Jen's laughter faded slightly. "Roy?"

Soon he would grow giant breasts and an hourglass figure. Soon he would look at a man's package and swoon. Soon he would abandon his large pockets and stick-straight t-shirts for tight-fitting skinny jeans and curvy v-necks. There was little hope for Roy. There was no time. The only way to cure this was to take off all his clothes and begin masturbating immediately.

Obviously, he was delusional.

"Roy, are you alright?"

There was a tall black man standing above the television, whispering into its side as though telling it a secret. Roy strained to hear. It was nothing but nonsense words—Bollocks. Cletus. Wimbledon.

The black man reached to the top of his head and unzipped his entire body from the top down as though it were a winter jacket, peeling the skin away and revealing Roy's face and then a curvy naked body with giant breasts. The black man was really Roy, as a woman, all along.

Bollocks. Cletus. Wimbledon.

"I DON'T WANT TO BE A WOMAN!" Roy cried.

Jen picked up the remote control and turned off the television, adjusting her position to face him. "Roy, is there something you'd like to discuss?"

"I can't! The tall black man is listening!"

"What tall black man? Are you out of your bloody mind?"

Roy's eyes welled up with tears. "I have a headache."

Jen rolled her eyes. "Oh, God."

"I can't see. I can't breathe. I can't feel my hands. And every five minutes I'm back in that bathroom spanking the side of the bottle like I'm into bondage and discipline."

"It's all about sex with you, isn't it? Look, what do you mean you can't see?"

He looked down at the popcorn bowl. "Call me crazy, Jen, but I think I can only focus on one kernel at a time."

"Sounds like tunnel vision," she observed. "When was the last time Aunt Irma visited us? Are you experiencing any cramps or breast tenderness?"

"Oh, don't talk to me about breasts!"

"Okay, okay. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it. I think you might have a migraine. Would you like me to get you some meds? I have some in the cupboard over there."

Roy couldn't stop staring at the naked woman with his face, who was now doing jumping jacks in slow-motion and laughing maniacally.

"I'll take that as a yes," Jen said to herself. She stood up and went to the kitchen to grab the ibuprofen—four would kick Roy's migraine right away. She came back to him with the pills and a glass of water a moment later.

"Do you think you can hold this?" she asked gently. "I thought you said your hands were numb."

Roy shook his head and held a hand out for the pills, which he shoved messily onto his lifeless tongue before taking a few gulps of water—he had to hold the glass with both hands like how a baby holds a sippy cup. He felt like he was having a stroke.

"I can turn the lights off if you'd like," Jen offered.

"The black man will find me," he sputtered.

"Ha!" she said glumly. "And Imogene is the one in the hospital. Here I am stuck with a man that's delusional."

Roy looked up at her as though he was seeing her for the very first time. "Quiet down, Mr. Obama. I don't have the chaos emeralds!"

"You spend way too much time on the Internet. Here, I'll turn off some lights and get you a blanket so you can try and sleep. That girl I worked with, Suzanne, used to get migraines, and all it took for her was to just sit in a dark room and get away from everything."

She left the room and went to mess around with some blankets. Suddenly, the door to her flat burst open and Moss hurried in, tightly grasping the handles of his little orange backpack and pressing his lips together nervously. His brown coat was zipped strangely and he was breathing heavily, so restless he was bouncing off the walls and pacing around the room.

"I'm in a predicament, Roy," he announced. "Everything is NOT kitties and a bowl of milk. My mind races at two hundred ninety-nine million meters a second. My brain cells are evaporating into the fabric of the air! Poetic realizations flood my being with the raging fires of a thousand suns!"

"GO AWAY, MOSS!"

"I can't, Roy! I need help!" He reached onto the couch and shook Roy violently by the shoulders. "Help me, Roy! I need help!"

Jen came out of her bedroom with a pile of blankets. "What the hell is going on here?"

"It's a predicament, Roy!" Moss cried. "It's a bloody predicament! Man to man, I need some advice, and I need it quick!"

"Moss, get away from Roy! He's not feeling well!"

He pulled away abruptly. "Sorry."

"Why aren't you at home? Isn't your mum worried?"

Moss winced and tightened his grip on the backpack straps. "I've been working."

"Please be quiet," Roy whined, covering his face with his hands.

"Oh, Roy," Jen cooed, tossing a blanket over him. "Settle down. It'll be over in an hour or two."

"AN HOUR?!?!?!?!"

"What's the matter with him?" Moss asked, the tone of his voice more hurried than concerned.

"Just a simple migraine is all," Jen explained. "Could you do me a quick favor and turn that light off? It might be better for him if it's dark in here."

Moss went to a sidetable and turned off one of Jen's elaborate modern lamps--then turned it right back on again and started playing with the switch so that it was flickering like a ruddy strobe light. "Perhaps I should take him home, Jen. I have things to discuss with him anyway. Work-related things."

"Oh, really? What sort of work-related things?"

He laughed nervously, pretending to be cool despite his restless hands indicating otherwise. "Nothing you would understand, Jen. You know how it is. Once I mention ultra-low-voltage adjustable shunt regulators it'll all turn to meaningless garble."

She stopped and stared at him suddenly. "Stop doing that."

He recoiled from the lamp. "We could take the bus, Jen--"

"NO!" Roy screamed. "NO DRIVING! NO BATHROOMS, NO DRIVING!"

Jen turned off the living room light so the room was in near-total darkness. "There, that should do it. Moss, you seem awful restless. Why don't you come into the kitchen and I'll make you some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?"

He laughed a little too loudly. "I've been drinking quite a bit of coffee!"

"Ah..." Jen said with a concerned frown. "Tea it is then." She scanned him up and down. "Decaffeinated."

Moss followed her into the kitchen, where he removed his backpack and his coat and set the backpack on the table. He hung his coat over the back of a chair and stood next to it, too antsy to sit down.

"Never mind," he said quickly. "I don't think I fancy any tea right now, Jen. Dreadfully sorry."

She was skeptical. "Oh, alright."

She made a cup for herself anyway and leaned against the counter. Moss's hands were in fists at his sides.

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" Jen asked him. "Poor Roy over here is hallucinating Internet memes. God knows what you're going through."

"Ah, Jen," Moss said coolly. "Only Wikipedia calls them 'Internet memes'."

"Don't bash Wikipedia. It's how I keep my job."

Moss laughed and shook his head. "'Internet memes'. That's up there with 'social piranha' and the classic 'damp squid.'"

"What's wrong with 'social piranha'?"

"Everything."

Moss's brief smile faded into a serious silence. He crossed the room to a houseplant and fingered the leaves with existential contemplation. There was deep thought in his eyes, and he seemed more relaxed and normal than Jen had ever seen him.

"I'm in a strange mood, Jen," he proclaimed. "I'm absolutely wired."

She eyed his slouched posture and absentminded leaf-hand-job prowess. "I see."

"Yet at the same time," he continued. "Cool as a cucumber. My emotions are all muddled. Racing mind, yet anchored thoughts. Overwhelming euphoria, yet dismal depression. Firm bowels, yet excited—"

"Okay!" she almost yelled. "That's enough of that."

"Numerous contrasting elements are exploding within me in a flurry of inexplainable sensations!"

"Wow."

"I can't focus. I can't sit still. Twice today I thought I might be having a heart attack. I've never felt this way before, Jen, not even with Dr. Mendall—"

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Roy shrieked from the other room. "OR I'LL HUFF AND I'LL PUFF AND I'LL BLOW YOUR HOUSE DOWN!"

"Moss, what are you saying?" Jen asked.

"I'm saying..." Moss inhaled. "I'm saying..." He scrunched his lips together. "I think Roy might have been right."

"Right about what?"

"About..."

He hesitated.

Should he tell Jen? How could he? Maybe it was a little early. Maybe it was just overexcitement—excitement at something new, at change, at the prospect of improving his interpersonal skills with women. With a woman he hadn't known existed--a woman that seemed made for him.

He thought back to the last few hours he'd spent with...her. They had been so sweet, so homey, so safe. Moss had never felt so comfortable with a woman before—maybe with Jen, but that was in a strictly platonic sense. With Imogene, things were different.

Imogene.

Just thinking her name caused a small ache of electricity to blossom in Moss's diaphragm.

"Moss?" Jen prodded, slapping him back to reality. "About what?"

"About..."

Cat's eye glasses with diamonds on the rims. A wheezing laugh like a dying chipmunk. Little wispy hairs sticking up in all directions out of a messy, tugged-down ponytail.

Jen gestured towards him with her coffee cup. "About?"

Moss pressed his lips together.

"I cheated at MarioKart, Jen. That ticket to the movies is Roy's."