The Orange

Bones crack as I lift my body from the cushioned bed. Left on the goose feathered pillow lay silver hairs that have escaped from my scalp during the horrendous and sleepless night. From five at night to 8 in the morning nothing.  Sharp pain emerges from my swollen throat and releasing the pain requires an inadequate and unjustifiable act. Blood pours from my swollen mouth. In my prime viscus body fluids only escaped when I was on the job. Usually from my opponent. Occupation SB was my job. SB stands for spectacular being even though all I technically know know is martial arts. Yesterday, some mischievous younglings decided it would be hilarious to teepee my shack (superheroes don't make much money when they save people for free). Luckily, there was toilet paper around when I emerged from my abode to observe the minuscule bandits because the insignificant buggers needed it. Teeth gritted, arms flailing the youngsters nearly wet their unfit trousers at my sight. Until, an invisible foe starts to attack sparring with my heart. Blow after strenuous blow the attacker is relentless. It holds me down on the wettened ground until my wrinkled body starts to instantaneously twitch like a man with terets. Too old the doctors tell me.  Funny that is what the corporal stated the day I retired. Retire him with Howdy Dowdy the cadets would joke. Apparently a man in slim spandex is unable to deflect a spiralling bullet. Thoughts of bullets return me to the sharp cracks as I shuffle across the wooden floor. Each step feels more heavier than the last. Weight of my own limp body mass now pushes my body to the limits. Mass of luxurious cars and monstrous trucks only could do that before. Time is of the essence. My pace increases. Muscles tight from under use and bones frothed with arthritis combine forces to complete the job at hand. Lifelessly swaying now I start to feel less wooden flooring with with every single step. Then it comes. Wispy air pushes over my time beaten face as I free fall to the tough ground below. Inches from the ground I place my weathered hands out to cushion the landing. Instead, I grasp a silver chair but my knees scrape on smooth spikes. Using all my might, I tremble to pull myself onto the satin covered chair. Aches are removed from my throbbing prostate as I settle myself in the soft fabric. Through weathered eyes I see the meaning of life. An orange. Putrid casing with a sweet insides. Mankind lies and treats other like scum so they in turn aren't treated in the same way. Yet in there heart they do not wish this but they have too. Vibrant when in the supermarket they have their whole life ahead of them. Will they become orange juice or a topping on a salad? However, when they serve no purpose they get rotten and mushy. Worthless. Left for dead in a compost bin. I am in a compost bin.