The Restrooms in Luxembourg. (Pt. 1)

He goes out the door he came in 43 minutes ago. He doesn't bother to leave a card, a number or a note. He's quite the busy man who's completely enamored with appearance. His perfect hair, his perfect build, his perfect clothes and his perfect car all stashed away in his perfect house with his perfect family in their perfect quiet little town called Luxembourg, where everyone's lawns are perfect and teeth are straight. Where the street lights come on at exactly 8:15pm every night, and the sprinklers work like a well oiled machine bringing perfect water to perfect roses and trees.

So imagine how his perfect neighbors would feel if his perfect name and perfect seed were found spread across the cheeks of the imperfect slut he dragged to this perfectly imperfect motel in a city that's the pure doppelganger of Luxembourg; Cancer City.

It wasn't always called Cancer City. Back in some bronze age so many years ago, the city bustled with vibrancy and purpose. Every business thrived, and every citizen had a mutual understanding and respect for one another. At one point Cancer City used to be known as Middle Heights because of it's sea level compared to each city surrounding it.

But as the city thrived, it began to hunger for more. For more sincere back breaking labor; the kind that sucks the life out of a person until the day they retire and they realize two weeks later that they have nothing else to live for besides the job they toiled through for so many decades, and become bitter and feel useless.

One day Middle Heights began to develop a tumor. A tumor that would undulate and pulse in the name of Holy Commerce. Soon the tumor was not satisfied with it's mere surroundings, and began to absorb the modest and humble shops around it, leaving in it's wake abandoned buildings and sky rocketing debt that could never be repaid. Thusly, Cancer City was born.

He walks down the hall, past all the shaky motel rooms, and picks his teeth. In all his perfection, it's this nervous habit that helps keep him sane. It's this nervous habit that hearkens his perfect mind back to a time and place he all but forgets until his picks his teeth after copulating with any number of the single mothers stripping, and selling their wares to keep their heads afloat. It's this nervous habit that floods his mind with the sedation of nostalgia, and it's this sedation that allows his to face his perfect nightmare day to day to day to day.

One day he swears he'll change this, but somewhere in the back of his mind, as day to day to day to day passes he realizes it becomes much less likely. With every new strand of gray hair, and the slight evolution of stiffening joints he realizes that somewhere along the line his youth slipped into a coma, and never woke up. The vitals are low, but he keeps forgetting to pull the plug and accept and mourn that which even Jesus could never resurrect.

He sings to himself in his car, "Whoa-oh-oh-way-oh, Whoa-oh-oh-ohhh" and beats his fingers with purpose and deliberate precision in perfect time. He sits at a stop light, and bites his lip and can't help but laugh and realize the irony that the only thing that keeps him alive most days is Cancer City. A tumor blocks a deadly perfect blood-flow to his heart, and the poison restrains his blood from contaminating him completely.

Whoa-oh-oh-way-oh.

Entering Luxembourgh once again, he smells his clothing. He thinks her name was Andrea or Alena. Something with an A, he thinks. He's wrong though. Her name was Rachael. He forgot intentionally because his mothers name was Rachael as well, and he couldn't bare to think of himself deep inside a woman that shared the same name with a woman who happens to share the same name as his saint of a mother.

He begged his mother to live with his perfect family in his perfect house in his perfect city. He begged her, especially during those last few months. His mother refused politely, saying "Sometimes, Son...you just have to see things to their end despite how ugly they become. Sometimes you have to look for the inner beauty in something quite ugly to appreciate what purpose that sin truly serves in this world." She succumbed to Parkinson's and Diabetes complications proudly in the heart of the tumor. She took her last few breaths in Cancer City, and rested once more.

It was always her wish that her son would return and realize that Cancer City was always inside of him, and no matter how hard he attempted to run from this bitter fact, he was always drawn back for reasons he would never understood.

His mother understood.

Seeing through the weight of his transgressions he refused to commit in Luxembourg, she silently wept every time he left the nursing home. She swore she thought she raised him better, to know better, that perfection is the most damning damage one could put their soul through. She prayed that one day he'd return and accept that which he denied, for she knew that that tumor kept him alive. That tumor sustained his obtuse sanity. That tumor undulated solely for him, if only he would come to recognize disease as a life saver.