Simpsons - Habits - Ch. 09

Stillness – the same numbing stillness that brought Smithers back to the night he'd spent at Burns' Manor – crept into the man's feebly-beating heart. His mind drifted, rowed through a sea of memories with the hands of the clock as his oars, and forced him to think of the dream that plagued him that faithful night. Burns sitting so fragilely upon Smithers' lap, running talon-like fingers over delicate flesh, a skeletal hand roaming with intended torture just above a yearning waistband; a dream that impacted him far more than any of his fantasies before; a dream that made all others seem hopelessly pathetic and school-boyish. It was a dream so real, and to have such wonderful bliss be falsified only to be awakened to a reality of depression and unknowing left Smithers at a loss. His questions transition from the prosperity of Burns to the uncertainty of his own existence.

The conversation (albeit it almost completely one-sided) carried by an eight-year-old child had left his mind in a jumble, perpetually searching for some type of answer. Why was he chosen to endure such rampant feelings to be tossed asunder as though he were mere garbage? His feelings - they meant nothing to Burns, and if they did, it was never expressed. Those tiny flutters, those gentle tingles, those many nights without sleep; Burns endured not one of them. Burns seemed a master at the game of chess that was life, each of his pawns set in place, guarding him from checkmate. Each employee of the plant was a pawn, and Smithers had been reduced to one as well. Yet, if he was a pawn, then what was life? Life had intervened, had somehow surpassed him upon the board and gotten to the king, and by some illegal move was finishing what appeared a never-ending game. Perhaps life was the opponent, the disgruntled opponent that flipped the board just as its counterpart was on the cusp of victory.

"Mr. Smithers?" The concerned sound of a child's voice grazed his ears with enough reality to yank him from the depths. "Are you alright?"

A child – a child cared more about his problems than a man with an entire century (and four extra years) ever had. Distaste for Burns formed at the back of Waylon's throat, which concerned him and frightened him, yet, in some twisted fashion, felt liberating. He choked upon the bitter bile that threatened to tarnish to tiled floor, managing to force it back to the depths to drown alongside his thoughts of despair.

"I'm fine, Lisa," he sighed to prevent himself from sputtering, sniffling away the urge to burst into tears and turn into a screaming toddler upon the floor. He sat up and struggled to wear a phony smile, streaks of dried tears and a trembling lower lip, however, made the grin that much more artificial. "How's your brother? He did go through with giving his blood again, right?" A roundabout way of asking about Burns' condition; Smithers had become what he hated, a user – using Bart's well-being without much concern only to uncover some information about his boss. He had set up his own chess board and slowly the pawns were falling into place, and he hated himself with each one he set up.

"Oh yeah, Bart's fine," Lisa beamed, the unreadable flicker behind her eyes unveiling that her smile wasn't exactly that genuine either. Her kind heart and worry for others seemed to be programmed within her being, rendering her unable to flee from it under any circumstances. "He did – can't say he was happy about it, but yes, he did," a glance to the clock, "they're probably discharging him now."

As if on cue, instructed by the director of this little play that life had become, Bart and Homer exited the back portion of the hospital and reentered the waiting room.

"I can't believe you made them give you a lollipop, man," Bart grumbled with his hands shoved into his pockets, he kicked at the floor and rolled his eyes as his father indulged upon the sweet. "I was their Dracula victim!"

"Hey," the bald man chuckled and shrugged, sucking upon the lollipop much like his infant daughter did upon her pacifier. Suddenly, Bart was forced to see that each of them had some resembles to the oafish man that towered over him. "You said you were too old for candy. Next time you should keep your mouth shut."

Lisa shook her head in disappointment, but couldn't hide the delicate chuckle that sneaked from her chest, "see, I told you he was fine."

A puny chuckle, "well, that's some good news today…."

"Lisa!" The raspy yet feminine voice of the eight-year-old's mother called as she stood before the automatic doors that led to the parking lot. "When your father and brother get – oh, there they are – anyway, come on, you'll be late for band practice."

Emotionally torn, Lisa glimpsed to her mother impatiently gesturing with her hand and then peered to Mr. Smithers. As with most children, their mother won each time – not because the mother was always the one they wanted to choose, but because the mother was always the one who could punish them.

"Be right there, Mom," she called to buy herself time for as proper of a goodbye as she could bestow, "I'm really sorry, Mr. Smithers, but I have to go. Keep me updated on what happens, okay?"

"Sure thing," Waylon weakly agreed, letting that damned smile fall as he returned his head to face the floor.

In that moment, Lisa felt helpless as she was pulled by an invisible force that led her outdoors and back to the family car. She stared back at the building, taking in each little detail of it for memory's sake, as she waited for Maggie to be strapped into her car seat. Once the youngest of the three was secured, Lisa climbed begrudgingly into the car, mind full of thoughts most other children her age would have no idea existed.

"Mom, do you think Mr. Smithers is going to be… okay?" She asked, her fear running much deeper and colder than any of the adults would believe or understand. They'd perhaps think she meant in terms of coping, and in a way she did; but she thought not of how he would cope, but if he would cope. She wandered down the dark stairwell of one's inner mind, the cellar that one's eye never wished to turn upon, and within it found images of Mr. Smithers and the possible ways he may commit suicide.

"Of course!" The contradicting cheerful tone of the woman provided no ease to what her daughter was being tortured with. Was it even humanly possible to comfort someone from their inner realm, even by one's own mother? "Now, don't you worry about this, Lisa; it's really more of a grown-up issue."

"Everything's always a "grown-up" issue," the young girl huffed and crossed her arms upon her chest. Her back flopped against the supporting seat and her eyes married with the window of the car, honeymooning with the bright greenery of summer's scenery. She sighed, immersed in the wonders of nature and how magnificent it was, and how small and insignificant the human race was. In everything, in every way, there was a negative to all of life's positives – but without the darkness, the torture, the gruesomeness, there would be little point in the majestic. For if one wasn't forced to endure the things they so often wished away, they would grow bored with all the things that made life worth living – and thus, they would wish away their own lives entirely.

"I understand more than what everyone thinks. Nobody ever listens to kids, and we're the ones that will someday be doing everything other adults are doing now. Weren't you ever a kid, Mom?"

"Well," Marge began thoughtfully as she shifted in the passengers' seat to view her children; two of the three were sleeping. "Of course I was, but what does that have to do with Mr. Smithers?"

An inadvertently proven point at which Lisa groaned, "no, I mean, don't you remember ever believing in something or knowing something, but no one would take you seriously simply based on the fact of your age?"

When Lisa's voice raised and Marge watched her two sleeping children begin to stir, she gave a motherly-stern scowl to her middle child.

"We'll talk about this when we get home, Lisa."

Shrugged off again; her intelligence and burning curiosity tossed aside to become wastes of space floating about in the air. She sighed, she grumbled, she would have sworn if she didn't fear being punished – Lisa silently broke down without a single crack being made on the mask she had created for her feelings to hide behind. She hid them well, and in turn, her family was happy.

---

Smithers' head hung heavily, nearly weighing him down to the floor. His body yearned for some type of reason to continue what seemed a pointless life, a never-ending ballet where a star-crossed lover was damned by the one his heart so painstakingly desired. A shaky sigh that forced its way through the liquid concrete that filled the assistant's lungs; breathing had never seemed a more difficult task, leaving a wonder of if asthmatics ever suffered an attack as crippling. Burning flames of a pining so strong, so hopelessly disregarded set his chest ablaze; and Smithers now yearned for one thing greater than Burns – death.

What had seemed a simple problem, a tiny little mistake, was compounded by years – decades – of unappreciated servitude, relentless bondage to a prison of denied affection, and working as the slave of a man much more superior than he.

The waiting room was no longer existent. It had fallen away once the child had left and no distractions remained. The world seemed to turn off as a greater force flicked a switch that was Smithers' being. The man was shutting down, his mind being consumed by the acidity of his thoughts and his yearning. In that moment, there was nothing beyond his bespectacled eyes, but behind them laid everything he never dared to speak.

"Waylon!" The boisterous man who had remained with Smithers barked after multiple failed attempts of grabbing the other's attention. "Sheesh, come backs ta Earth, would ya? Da doctor wantsta talk to youse."

"Huh?" A response that made Smithers despise every thought that ever kept his attention from the reality at hand. He longed to escape the world, yet hated himself wholeheartedly when he managed to do so – he was damned if he didn't, damned if he did. Perhaps, that was all he ever was and ever would be – damned.

Sensing another unintentional rude bark from the opposite, Hibbert interjected with a charismatic chuckle, "yup, yup – the doctor wants to talk to you. Now, about Mr. Burns' current condition -,"

"It's bad, isn't it? He's going to die, isn't he?" Smithers, whatever handle of his life he had being ripped from his grasp, sobbed as guilt and shame ate away at his innards. He shook his head in dismay, uncertain how or if he could handle being the cause of yet another misfortune. "Damn it, why did I have to leave him alone?"

"-about his condition," the doctor reiterated as he sat in the creaky, wobbly chair across from the two men, "the blood transfusion went just as smoothly as last time, and he's stable in recovery." A proud and dignified smile played upon the doctor's face as his chest swelled – he had saved a life and was now able to relay that to his patients. "Of course, he's still groggy from the extra sedative, but you can go back and see him anytime you'd like."

---

Burns' lids were weighty as they fluttered in the near unmanageable struggle to open fully. His head lulled this way and that upon the pillow, pain having not yet set in from the day's events that he remained unaware and uncaring of. Ignorance was bliss as the medication had altered whatever tactfulness remained within his old and withered soul; he toyed with the tubes like a child receiving a new toy, and his eyes (once squinted open enough to see) toured the room with the utmost curiosity. A century's worth of roaming the Earth, discovering life and its little pains and pleasures, and nothing before had seemed more enthralling than the modern day machinery that cluttered around him. In that moment, Burns was seemingly born again and everything was anew.

The creaking of a door caught his ear, to which he responded with enthusiasm and inquisitiveness. For the Burns that harbored power and hatred, when medicated, was reduced to just another elderly soul in search for companionship as he lay upon his hospital bed. A rare smile – one not of personal gain or financial wealth or evil tomfoolery, but one of medicated happiness – crawled from one cheek to the other. His head carefully lulled in the direction of the door, his assistant and the surgeon who had saved his life entered.

Hibbert chuckled at the atypical cheerfulness of the silver-haired man, who grinned with each raggedy tooth exposed.

"Well, hello again, Mr. Burns, nice of you to join us. And how are we feeling?" The doctor greeted, his tone almost mocking the delusional state of Burns' mind. He rested a firm hand upon the tyrant's boney shoulder, checking pupils and reflexes before allowing Smithers to approach the bed.

Slurs invaded the elder's response, "ex-cel-lent – why, I haven't felt this giddy in over forty years!"

A worrisome expression, one of distress over his boss' sudden lighthearted mannerisms; how ironic it was that Smithers slaved, conformed and deformed, gave all but his physical existence for Burns to have some type of true joy beyond money and greed, and yet the moment it comes, it brings with it grief.

"A-are you sure you're alright, sir?"

"Oh, yes, yes," Burns tittered as his claw-like fingers curled purposelessly about the air, drifting beneath the point of his protruding chin. "In fact, I'm feeling rather generous. Smithers, take note – all employees shall receive a raise upon my return."

"Okay," Smithers emitted a bittersweet chuckle, "now, I know for sure it's just the medication."

The familiar snicker of Hibbert flitted about the air, "yes, Burns will be back to his overbearing self before you know it. The medication shouldn't last too much longer."

As the surgeon took his jolly leave, the disgruntled figure of the man they'd left waiting in that Godforsaken waiting room paced down the hallway, dodging staff and patients alike until he reached the doorway he was instructed to.

Moe, brows knitted and breath full of harsh complaints, entered the room and observed the sight; Waylon sat at the bedside of his boss - broad, masculine hand clasped over one of nothing more than skin and bones – watching as the elder's high started to come crashing down upon him, leaving him writhing in pain and filled with lust for revenge against those who brought him such grave suffering.

"Smithers!" Burns gasped as his fragile body struggled to remain still, shifting from one direction to another in attempt to escape the physical agony that clawed through him like a ravenous beast. "F-find whichever quack-job has done this to me and kill him!"

"But, sir-,"

"Waylon, I w-won't tolerate any insubordination from you, nor from anyone else! Find who did this to me and see to it he's dead by dawn, or you're fired!"

"Sir, you're being a little -,"

Burns glared at his assistant, additional threats burning behind icy eyes when they couldn't be forced from his pursed lips. His concentration was broken as from the corner of his eye, he caught glimpse of the shabby looking bar owner loitering in the doorway.

"Who the devil are you?"

"What's'it ta youse?" The barkeeper scoffed as he prowled into the room, his steps as quiet as the cat who stalks the unsuspecting mouse. Nerves consumed him entirely, gnawed at the reputation of the "tough guy" exterior he had perfected, as he slid a hesitant hand to Waylon's shoulder. "I'm a friend…."

"Oh-ho! That's a laugh," the ailing man laughed, regret radiating through his chest as the sutures atop his bandaged scalp burned and throbbed from the force of his actions. "I'll admit those quacks gave me top-notch pain killers, but those have worn off enough for me to know that I've never been friends with the likes of you."

Another harsh scoff and a tight squeeze to the assistant's shoulder, "pfft, in yo' dreams, Burns – actually, I'm's a friend of Waylon's."

"Is-ss-s that s-ss-so?" An awkwardly extended question that seemed ripped straight from the tongue of a vengeful serpent. Burns eyed the man, examined him from nappy head to turned-in toes, and turned his pointed, crooked nose up with a scowl. "Hmm… yes, well, how grand for the both of you."

"Youse bein' sarcastic ova deres, Burns? Cause if youse are, I'll –,"

A horribly uncomfortable chortle cleared from Smithers' throat as he rudely shrugged away the other man's hand, standing from his seat on wobbly knees and pushing against Moe's slumped shoulders.

"Moe-e-ee," he urged through gritted teeth and a blatantly phony smile, "don't you think it's time you get back to the bar?"

"Not unless youse's comin' back with me…. Ah, youse knows, ta pay fo' all dose drinks youse had earlier."

Torn – a decision that left Waylon stuck between a rock and a wall. His frantic eyes scanned over the sickly man, the same man who had nearly lost his life the last time Smithers left his side. The next man Waylon's eyes traveled to was a friend, one who he'd grown closer to after their shared business failure and the one who'd left his current business to stand by him when the broken man was on the verge of darkness. A choice of an impossible measure – to risk decades' worth of unrequited lust or to risk a friendship that provided solace when there was none.

A groan crept up from Smithers' Adam's apple as his head was thrown back in disgust of the situation he'd inadvertently thrown himself into.

"…. I'm sorry, Moe, but Mr. Burns needs me," his head lowered, almost as though he were shameful of the choice he'd so thoughtlessly made. "I have to stay here…. B-but, I swear, I'll pay you back; I'll drop whatever I owe you off at the bar tomorrow."

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