Buy Now-a flash fiction story

I walk to the mailbox, a special lift in my stride as my feet clip the uneven garden stones. My special order should have arrived by today. A bright time in my neverending mental darkness.

I forcefully add excess pep into my step, as if I can convince myself to be happy. To forget the spiral of intrusive thoughts that circle my brain like vultures, picking at my tumbling depression, unlogical insecurities, and a madness tied to insomnia.

Just make it to the mailbox.

We’ll worry about the rest after. Later. Once the tape has been rolled up and thrown in the recycling bin. Once the cardboard has been cut, folded, and shoved into a flat square. Once the item itself to be unbundled, set, and put away. Once the plastic bubble wrap has been popped and tossed. Once everything is taken care of. Then we can worry about my undiagnosed and diagnosed mental illnesses.

I open the metal lid with a firm yank, brushing off snow and ice. There’s a small, yellow package, crinkled and sad, along with a blue and white plasticky package, ‘PRIME’ crossing over it like corporation double dutch. No sign of a brown cardboard box with black tape, my favorite form of package. Pity.

A white envelope leans against the side. Unusual. I never get mail--well, never the usual mail, with its stamps and return addresses. I take all three packages inside, anxious to open them all. Anxious for the serotonin to kick in. For the cardboard reward to lend peace to my ever-acting mind.

I rip open the blue and white one first. After I tear along the dotted lineand rip through layers of unnecessary plastic, I see how useless the item is. $30 worth of squishable stress-relieving toys. Fry packets, panda, fishies, all with obnoxiously enormous eyes. I don’t know why I bought them--stress toys do me no good. I've tried them all.

But I do know why I bought them. For the kickstarting, thrilling fear of clicking ‘BUY NOW’. The orange button practically begs me to spend my money. And who am I to refuse? Like a heroin junkie, hooking on the adrenaline and highs, I turn back to the button, time and time again. Just for that 3 second feeling of relief and power.

I open the little yellow one next. I never care to glance through my orders, to see what I actually bought. I just read the ‘YOUR PACKAGE HAS SHIPPED’ notifications that dot my phone like gnats. Those little moments keep me breathing. It’s like coffee to exhausted breadwinning fathers--I need it to live.

And the little surprise is always a treat. Except when it’s not. I’m disappointed immediately upon seeing what it is. $8 spent on double-sided glasses cleaner. Like a scrub on a Y-stick. I don’t even own glasses. I don’t know anyone who actually does.

I don’t know anyone. But that’s not the point. Just thinking about it sends me into vertigo. Just thinking about my friendless state kicks me into overdrive. I clumsily stumble to the computer, pulling up Amazon, and let autocorrect find me something new. Ooh, a cordless color-changing mouse for my rank-old PC. Perfect. I hit ‘BUY NOW’ as soon as the page loads.

My breathing calms. I hadn’t even noticed its acceleration. Oh well. I’m fine now. Fin as a fiddle with no audience. Happy as a clam in April. Over the moon with no spacesuit. Normal, in my situation.

I turn to the crisp envelope, the white a blinding shock against my skin. A Bugs Bunny postage stamp rests in the upper right. Innocent, but not really. I slide my nail under the seal, tearing it open.

I unfold the paper that’s been folded up nice and tight. I skim over it, my mind never one to take the time and read all the letters. But I can discern that I’ve overdrawn my account. Again. But this is the last time they will remind me. If this happens again, they will freeze my account. I have 7 days to pay my last overdues.

Uh oh.

I lost my job the other day. No more paychecks are coming. In my fearful frenzy, I had ordered fifteen items. How am I supposed to pay the bank, Amazon, and my food bill? How am I supposed to live?

My chest tightens, my breath quickens, my eyesight blurs. My fingers fumble across my keyboard, searching who knows what on Amazon. I click ‘ORDER’ on pieces of junk. Junk I’ll probably never use. Everything calms after I click the orange button after I verify my card number and address.

Address.

Rent is due tomorrow, and I have no money to show for it. I spent it all on Amazon, doctors and therapists. I have no coin under my name. I have nothing, nothing at all. I’m going to have less than nothing in a moment.

My body tightens up like a bowstring, ready to snap or fly. Clickity-clackity. My fingers waltz across the keyboard, searching for instant relief. Not a drug, but something that does just the same. The little Amazon search bar. The little orange button. My heroin.