On and on: The Static Object

Sunday February 8th, 2026

5:43 AM

He wakes before the sun and regrets it. He’s not even sure what woke him.

The house is quiet as ever.

He looks at the window. There’s a layer of frost where the condensation from his breath has frozen into crystal.

He yawns.

Scratches the frost with his thumbnail.

How is that he wakes up every morning more tired than when he went to bed?

He strains an ear.

There aren’t any birds calling outside, it’s too cold for that.

Maybe a neighbor honked a horn?

He would have preferred to stay asleep.

He wasn’t even having a particularly interesting dream— just walking in the woods with Batman, the black lab puppy he had when he was a kid.

No, nothing special. But it was better than this.

He wishes he could fall back asleep.

But now that he’s opened his eyes he knows it’s a lost cause.

He groans and pulls himself to the edge of his bed. He casts a baleful glance at the crutches that lean against the corner of the frame.

There’s a flash of an image in his mind, his crutches coated in a thick layer of dust.

The crutches, no longer in use.

The thought makes him happy, then he wonders what the thought meant— does he fantasize about the crutches no longer being needed because he has recovered? Or does he fantasize about the crutches no longer being needed because he has died?

He shoves the thought away, and grits his teeth against any deeper exploration.

He hauls himself upright and wonders: why?

What’s he even getting up for?

Then he gets out of bed to change his diaper.

***

Monday February 9th, 2026

2:09 AM

He wakes on the couch and regrets it.

There’s a crick in his neck, sharp and painful. There’s also an ache in his bladder, he is about to pee.

He’s not sure which part of his body gave him the wake up call.

Perhaps he should thank his neck pain for warning him.

He hopes he has time.

He had fallen asleep in the middle of a movie, but he can’t even remember the title. Some stupid scifi thing from the 80s, with practical effects that were done poorly.

It would have been laughably bad if he’d been in a laughing mood.

There’s a sour taste in his mouth, from stale barbecue chips, because he’d been snacking all day and he’d fallen asleep without brushing his teeth.

He regrets that too.

But what he regrets most of all is that he’d fallen asleep without putting his diaper on.

He pulls himself up on the arm rest, to reach his crutches.

One slides away and falls on the floor.

“Fuck.”

He groans in pain as he reaches down to get the fallen crutch.

He really has to pee.

He’s about to.

His finger barely grazes the brushed aluminum frame, he can’t get a grip, his bladder is screaming now.

“Please God, please. I don’t wanna piss myself.”

But he knows God isn’t listening.

He reaches with all his waning might and a small thought breaks through the panic: he can just use the other crutch to drag the rogue crutch forward.

It works.

But his win is short lived, he’s starting.

He knows he can’t help it, it can’t be stopped.

He pushes himself desperately off the couch and onto the floor.

A hard, painful, sloppy landing but at least this way the cleanup will be easier.

He knows from experience that cleaning his own piss off the hardwood is easier than cleaning it out of the upholstery.

He tries to count this maneuver as another win. But as the urine trickles out of him and warms his legs, tears well in his eyes.

He wishes he had someone to help him.

He wishes he had someone, period.

He hates being alone.

But he gave up on the dating apps long ago.

Nobody wants to date a cripple. They don’t care it’s not his fault. Nobody wants to date somebody with urinary incontinence.

But he knows there are others with his conditions who have husbands or wives.

So it must just be him.

Nobody wants to date a sad sack loser who can’t work, who can’t fuck, who can’t laugh or smile.

The wet pajama pants grow cold against his legs and he thinks again about dusty crutches.

Every fiber of his being yearns for change.

This life is unlivable.

He drags himself to his crutches.

He really needs to brush his teeth.

And clean his piss.

Then he can go the fuck to bed.

***

Monday February 9th, 2026

8:00 AM

He wakes to the alarm on his phone.

He groans.

He’d forgotten it was a Monday. After all the effort it took to clean the hardwood in the middle of the night, his one consolation was that he’d be able to shut out the real world for a good chunk of time and sleep the next day away.

But Mondays were when the social worker came to check on him.

She’s an angelic black woman with the prettiest eyes. But what he likes best is her voice.

So soothing.

She’s always very kind to him.

And he hates her for that.

He knows better, but her kindness, her smile…

These things make him wish for more.

He knew there is no chance. He could never be enough for her.

He could never make her happy.

Hell she seems already happy.

Maybe that’s what he likes about her.

But the truth is he could never be with her, because he’d make her unhappy.

That was obvious.

But still, aside from and beyond all the unpleasant truths: she makes him want.

He wishes he had a fat ugly guy for his social worker. Then he wouldn’t be tempted to dream.

But still, his heart beats a little faster knowing that’s he’s on her way to his house.

As much as her departure each Monday ruins his soul, her presence very nearly sustains him.

She is just about the only real human contact he has these days.

Though sometimes when he can afford it he orders food for delivery just in the hopes he’ll get a friendly smile from whoever drops it off.

She’s coming.

He needs to freshen up and pretend to smile.

***

Tuesday February 10th, 2026

11:52 AM

He wakes and his head is throbbing.

He’s hungover.

The smell of stale piss is sharp and pungent in his nostrils. He tries to get his bearings.

He’s in bed.

He forgot to diaper because he’d been drinking.

The rest of the fancy gin his brother had bought him, gone.

He regrets that.

Not the hangover, the waste.

He’d been saving that gin, trying to.

It was a special treat, a gift to remind him that he wasn’t truly alone in the world. Only alone on the East Coast. He has an older brother out in Cali who loves him.

He doesn't love him enough to visit, but by God he loves him enough to send a very fancy bottle of gin each year for his birthday.

And that counts for a lot. Maybe more than it should.

He’s stretches his arms.

The aftertaste of liquor is still on his breath.

He’s amazed that he managed to get himself to bed at all.

He’s not even that mad at himself for peeing the bed. It’s a ball-pain to change his sheets, but he’s had plenty of practice and the mattress has a protector of course.

So it’s better here than on the couch.

He squints against the sharpness of the light outside.

Fresh snow shimmering in the sun, so bright it nearly blinds him.

He thinks again about Batman, the way he’d wag his tail and seem so happy just to be around people.

Around him.

He thinks maybe he should adopt a dog.

That would make him happy.

He wouldn’t feel so alone.

He almost smiles at the idea.

But then his smile falters. He’s on disability. He can’t afford a dog.

And he can only just barely take care of himself, physically.

He can’t walk a dog. He can’t carry a dog if it gets injured. He can’t get a dog.

Batman is only a memory now, and Batman 2 can’t ever be a thing.

He looks at his phone and his heart sinks even further.

Last night he drunk texted the social worker, the one he always looked forward to seeing.

He quickly taps out a new text “oh my God, I’m so sorry. This was super inappropriate and stupid of me, I regret it and apologize if I made you uncomfortable. I hope you can forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that. I was drinking last night but I have no excuse. I’m sorry.”

He chews his lip. He waits for a reply.

He doesn’t dare to dream she’ll respond with an ‘I feel the same way.’

This is real life. Not a fantasy.

But he has to hope she will at least forgive him. Maybe she can laugh it off?

Who is he kidding. A woman like her, a good person like her, getting an unwanted proposal from a pathetic loser like him?

She will run far and fast, to put distance between herself and the hobbling pants-pisser.

He thinks about dusty crutches again.

He thinks about taking a hammer to his fucking crutches, beating them until they’re bent pieces of scrap metal.

He thinks about burning all his fucking diapers.

But he can’t.

He needs them.

***

Tuesday February 10th, 2026

11:59 PM

He wakes from a restless sleep and checks his phone. She hasn’t replied. But there’s a read receipt.

He wants to text more. An explanation. A line about respecting her as a person and regretting the intrusion. About hoping she’s still willing to work with him, about how she brightens his week….

But he manages to hold back, he knows he won’t make things better by blowing up her phone.

He opens instagram. He begins to scroll.

He looks at his follower count. His brother. His brothers wife. And a bunch of spam accounts, people who followed in the hopes he’d follow back.

He had, of course, in the hopes they’d converse and maybe start a friendship.

None of them panned out.

He scrolls through his feed.

Models and memes.

The memes don’t help him laugh.

An hour crawls by.

The models only make him horny.

But in a frustrated way. They’re stunning, sure. And they seem so friendly— so happy— in their pictures.

But he knows they’d never give him the time of day.

He turns off the phone and lets his head flop on the pillow.

He thinks about trying to rub one out. But he doesn’t think he could.

He feels impotent in his soul. Untouchable.

Except by doctors and nurses— and they’ll only touch him if their fingers are armored with latex.

So how could he stroke one out? what would he think about to get him there?

Was there any kind of erotic fantasy he could entertain that would allow him to really suspend his disbelief?

No.

Maybe a hooker. But he hates the idea of someone who finds him repulsive just doing it for money even more than he hates the idea of being alone forever.

Besides he doesn’t just want a quick release. He wants love. He wants to be held.

He wants someone to hold, to cuddle with through the night.

To satisfy.

But the fantasy of a willing, smiling partner is too absurd and alien to entertain.

Nobody, no real woman, would spend the night with him in his bed. He knows it.

He thinks about his social worker.

He could love her but how could she ever love him?

He wishes he never sent her that text.

***

Wednesday February 11th, 2026

1:07 AM

He wakes with a semi. He tried to go back to sleep and succeeds in dozing.

Wednesday February 11, 2026

1:28 AM

He wakes with an almost painful erection.

He can’t stay asleep.

He checks his phone.

She hasn’t replied.

He hates himself.

He grabs some lotion and some tissues.

He tries jerk one out, but as he thinks about how untouchable he is starts to feel like he cannot even touch himself.

He wilts, without any release.

He rolls over and stares at the wall, vowing not to move until he falls back asleep.

The tears don’t come.

He wants to cry, but the tears don’t come.

He can’t sleep.

He rolls on the other side.

He gets up and looks for the shittier gin.

***

Wednesday February 11, 2026

2:33 AM

He wakes with his head on the table, a string of drool puddling from the corner of his mouth. He reaches for a wrinkled take out napkin, to wipe his face, then the table.

There’s a tall glass poured, but he hasn’t even taken a sip. Once he got himself situated and put the bottle of pills on the table before him, a severe weariness took hold of his body and mind.

He passed out.

The pills were never opened. The tamper evident seal is still intact.

He supposes exhaustion might have just saved his life.

Juries still out on whether it was worth saving.

He thinks about his phone, but he knows it’s not worth checking.

He thinks about dumping those pills and flushing them, so they won’t be an option.

But he hates the idea of having no options.

He grabs his clutches, clings to them, and shuffled back to a fresh diaper and bed.

***

Wednesday February 11, 2026

10:45 AM

He wakes when his phone rings. It’s the agency she works for, he grabs the phone—maybe it’s her!

“Hello?”

His face droops.

They’ve called to inform him that they’re reassigning his social worker to another case and that they’ll be in contact to arrange for a new care provider within the next couple weeks. They want to know if he’ll be able to manage without a check in this coming Monday, or whether he’d like them to send out an interim provider.

He tells them he’ll be fine.

But he isn’t fine and to think he ever will be?

Well that’s just a lie.

For whose sake, he’s not quite sure.

He texts his brother.

“I’m having a rough time man. Going through some stuff. Hope you and your fam are doing well. I know your busy with the wife and kids but if you get some free time maybe we can do some gaming tonight? I’d like to chat and catch up and kill the fuck out of some zombies if youre up for it.”

***

Thursday February 12, 2026

1:11 PM

He wakes with a yawn.

He marvels again, that he can be more tired each morning than he was when he went to bed.

He killed a lot of zombies last night. Helped to distract from his perpetual boredom. He played until almost four in the morning.

But he doesn’t regret it because at least he was able to sleep in.

Still, he played alone.

His brother never got on. He tries to understand— the man is busy with family obligations.

But isn’t he family too? He frowns. He doesn’t want to be an obligation. But it would be nice to talk to another human. Even one who’s grown distant.

His brother did text to say he was sorry he couldn’t squad up. Said his kids were are all sick with a stomach bug.

He feels for his nephews, hopes they feel better.

He feels for his brother. Hopes he never feels as lonely as this.

He wishes he had kids.

He doesn’t really know what it’s like, having people depend on you. And he supposes he’ll never have the chance to learn.

Being untouchable and all, the only way he’ll ever get a woman pregnant is if he donates sperm.

He sighs and looks out the window.

Overcast.

His social worker never responded— he’s still ashamed.

Professing his love to the woman who was providing him a professional service.

Was he really that desperate?

Yes.

He pulls on his warm bathrobe and gathers his crutches. His oversized winter boots are on the other side of the house.

He doesn’t have a real reason to go outside but he just wants to breath the air. And maybe the neighbors will be out walking their dog.

Or maybe a dad will be out playing in the snow with his kids.

Maybe if he waves they’ll wave back.

The neighbors probably think he’s weird.

He hopes none of them know he wears diapers.

His robe will hide the bulk, he thinks.

***

Monday February 23rd, 2026

8:00 AM

His alarm rings and today he has something to wake up for! His new social worker will be coming to meet him today.

He has to freshen up.

***

Monday March 2nd, 2026

8:30 AM

He’s adjusted his alarm because it’s not really worth the effort to freshen up.

His new social worker is a man. Not even a fat ugly one. A healthy, happy, confident looking man.

This social worker wears a wedding ring, which means he was able to attract a partner.

Waking in a wet diaper, he can’t help but think about that and feel jealous. He tries not to resent the new social worker.

He tries to feel happy for him. At least one man is living a good life.

He tries in earnest. But he can’t.

***

***

***

Authors note: I know this is pretty bleak. That’s deliberate.

This is for the “Craft Over Catharsis” challenge, which asks for writing that prioritizes structure/ form over emotional release.

I tried to achieve this by using a “third person limited” narration style and restricting scenes to waking to emphasize a trapped sense of monotony and lack of resolution.