Happiness is relative, negativity is constant.

This morning, I was bitten by a ferret.

The scratch marks and puncture wounds swelled in tiny streaks on the corner of my hand. The rest of the morning was spent continuing Christmas shopping alongside NSIW I. His self-indulgent purchase of Starcraft headphones was involved. Cheeseburgers and Coke made for an effective breakfast. My present for him came in the form of a yellow envelope containing a Simpsons birthday card that had a pop-up cutout of Homer jiggling at the end of a spring on the face of it, and a gift card to The Lego Store because I remembered him mentioning once in passing he'd wanted to buy everything they sold in there. I also remembered him mentioning once in passing the fact that he hated having his birthday on Christmas if only because people felt obligated to do more for him. I found myself wondering if remembering these things he's mentioned once in passing amongst the torrent of information constantly flooding from his mouth is thoughtful or creepy or just plain foolish of me. He's only mentioned them once. In passing.

I made it to work on time that day. I've been getting in trouble for not keeping that up lately. Clients rushed in and out of the bank in waves, scattering about for last-minute funds for last-minute gifts for last-minute people. The scratches on my hand have turned a brilliant shade of red. I keep stretching out my fingers, making the skin taut and the slight injury sting, beyond my conscious control. Why do we enjoy playing with our wounds, anyway? Is it a compulsion? A need? A morbid fascination with being in control of our own pain?

I come home to pick up a ringing phone, and there's devastating news.

I never condoned the act of crying in front of other people, but in this case I think I'm allowed to make an exception, and I continued to make that exception until I reached that strange threshold where you run out of tears and every sob is dry and dwindling to the point of complete numbness and blank stares and shadowed eyes that feel more and more swollen the higher you lift your vision along that wall in front of you.

I'm at my mother's side as she ends up in fetal positions around the house, the majority of the time spent on the floor.

"I'm losing my mother," she repeats, on linoleum, on carpet, on my shoulder, on her mattress. "I'm losing my mother."

I hold her close, bearing the heart to share her sadness, not having the heart to indicate I could say the very same thing. She doesn't need any more changes for the worse. She's slipping.

The world is blurry through these tears. I stretch the skin on the corner of my hand and all I taste is Coke.