text: An Ungrateful Disease Flowers sit atop the end table. The vase filled with water has a particularly reddish haze to it that attracts the eye. Yet the senses tingle more than what appears to the gander. Papers rustling, a loud elongated burp, the movement of hastened anxiety pulls the attention of the room. He crashes and turns, pushes, pulls, and tears. What does he seek? No that is not the reason to be heard, why does he seek it? It's the middle of the night and this man is running through the mental state of his mind as if there is marathon training to be had. He pulls paper out of the drawer, tearing more and more pieces with every movement. It doesn't matter though, they are all old, irrelevant to the reality of things. In his reality they symbolize structure, they speak for the ledge that he so dearly grabs for in the same way a falling acrobat looks for the saving hand of their companion before they crash in front of the eyes of their fans. And with the same excitement and anxiety of the acrobat he searches faster and faster. There is no rhyme or reason, only a search for the end. Finally he finds it, a receipt for the television he purchased. He can contact the manufacturer, the shop, the electrician, anyone to help with the warranty he so dearly clutches to. It was a two year warranty, certainly someone will take care of the problem. Day in and out, for weeks he has valued each moment of time in search of this proof so he can finally rectify the situation. No one will help him, not the son he so dearly raised, not the friend that he speaks to on the telephone, even the neighbor that passes by daily with a wave and a nod thought ill of his request. Finally he can take matters into his own hand. As he reaches for the phone, a slight chill caresses his cheek with the burst of wind from the open doorway. He struggles to get up from his bed, papers scattered about and boxes opened affray. With a close of the door he can let the warm air inside cuddle his diminishing figure, in cooperation with the robe and blanket combo that has become his daily wardrobe. He moves towards the door, and back on his seated makeshift office space of his bed the paper falls to the ground with the aftershock of wind. It trickles down, spinning as the leaves do in autumn renditions of nature. With a silent thud it rests where it may stay for months to come, the lettering fondly still legible after all this time. The date on the receipt reads February 16th of the year 1993, a mere 21 years past the warranty date, yet a second cousin to the time he remembers. The moment will be forgotten, the anxiety elongated for years to come, and the television unfortunately never repaired, at least not under warranty. Such is the life of the man, such is the life of many of the misunderstood. (This is my first post here, and i'm not even sure if this would be considered a short story, so be gentle haha. Criticism is greatly appreciated though, I have been writing since a young age and have recently found a new passion for it. The story above is loosely based on experience with my grandfather whom suffers from Alzheimer's. Criticism on punctuation and flow of the language would be great too! Regardless, thanks for the time you spent reading.