Tramadol
About background pain, Tramadol, and manners.
This one has been in a drawer long enough. In fact, was the seed from where The Inevitable Encounter grew. It was one of my firsts and I love it in a special way. Well, here you go. Be kind, it’s in pain.
The basement is dark. The air is thick with iron and ammonia—blood and piss, probably his own. He doesn’t remember losing control of his bladder.
The man hangs by his wrists from a pulley, just off-center from where a single old lightbulb—25W—flickers, trying its best to give some color to the brownish walls. Tiled. Cracked. Patched with sloppy cement work.
He’s been unconscious for God knows how many hours. The first thing he feels is the hangover-like throb from whatever they injected into his neck. Then, the wrists. Burning from holding his weight too long. His feet barely scrape the floor, and he tries to push himself upright. Just enough to breathe a little better, to look up and see his purple fingers.
There’s a drain right under him—not just stinking of rot, but of something deeper. The accumulated waste of human despair.
He’s naked. He looks around. His brain refuses to accept that this isn’t a dream.
A voice behind him nails him to the awful, inescapable reality: he’s awake.
“Good morning.”
He turns. In the darkest corner of the room—where the bulb doesn’t dare to shine—he can barely make out a man sitting in an old sofa. Watching him. He tries to speak but the words won’t come.
The man stands. Two steps forward. The light catches him—a blur of stubble, a faded T-shirt. Is that a fucking Naranjito? Jeans. House slippers. For any external observer, he wouldn’t belong here. He doesn’t seem to notice.
He pulls a box cutter from his pocket and scratches his forearm with it, like it’s an extension of his hand.
The hanging man starts to scream.
“No, no, please!”
“Ah, so you do talk,” says the man with the cutter.
That same morning, Lluís had kissed his wife Empar at the front door. A daily routine—he was a couple steps under her, so his back wouldn’t hurt with the kiss. She’d adjusted his tie with that automatic gesture of twenty years of marriage, her fingers brushing the hollow of his throat the way she always did, like checking his pulse. Making sure he was still there.
“Don’t be late,” she’d said. “Maria’s coming for dinner.”
He’d stopped at the pharmacy on his way to the meeting. The usual routine: show ID, sign the controlled substance log, pocket the dosage. He always tried to be discreet about it. His colleagues didn’t need to know that their project manager lived on opioids.
Not that any of that matters now.
“Please—my wife’s expecting me. Dinner. Our daughter’s coming.” Lluís’ voice cracks.
A pause. The cutter-man’s face shifts, his eyelid twitches.
“Why do you all think I want something?” The man’s voice swings from calm to furious. A low murmur at first. Then a shout that echoes off the tiles. A pressure cooker, barely keeping it together. “Why do you offer me money EVERY FUCKING TIME?!”
The cutter approaches.
“No—no—please—” Lluís screams.
“No! No! Please!” the cutter-man echoes, laughing. “No one can hear you down here. We’re far from—”
He pauses abruptly, puts his hand to his forehead. Presses. Screams.
“Aaaaarghh, holy shit!”
Only silence after the scream. Lluís realizes that not only is he hanging helpless—he’s dealing with someone beyond reason. The man rubs his eyes and the back of his neck, like he’s trying to massage away something living under his skin.
“Fucking migraine,” he mutters, like he’s talking about politics or last night’s soccer game. Looks up. “No manners at all? Not even an ‘are you all right’?”
Almost naked. Hanging from the ceiling. Dizzy. But somehow Lluís knows that he must answer. This politeness might be his only play.
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. How are you feeling? Got a headache?”
“A bad one, yeah. Thanks for asking.” The sincerity in his voice disturbs Lluís more than the threats. “Even the bulb’s light is bugging me. I get this when my blood pressure spikes.”
“I get those too. Migraines. Are you taking anything for it?”
The man puts the cutter back in his pocket. Stretches his neck a little, and for a moment he looks almost vulnerable.
“Doctor gave me sumatriptan for the attacks, fifty milligrams. Helps sometimes, but this week’s been hell, y’know? This job is way more stressful than people think. My nerves are wrecked. Gotta find someone, drug ‘em, haul ‘em down here… You know how hard it is to hoist a full-grown man up by the wrists?”
“No, no, I honestly don’t.”
“Exactly. You people have no fucking clue. A spine like mine and no health insurance. Do you think I have time for Pilates?”
His tone is still casual. Conversational. He moves freely around the space, like he’s in his living room, talking about weekend plans.
Lluís’ eyes follow him: a carpet rolled up against the wall. Near it, on the ground, a couple of Diet Coke cans, a full ashtray.
The man takes a half-smoked cigarette and lights it. Pulls at his T-shirt, the faded Naranjito stretching across his chest.
“1982. I was twelve. Best summer of my life, before all this started.” He taps his temple. “Funny how you remember the good times, right? Even when they’re lies.”
He seems more relaxed. Lluís takes his chance.
“Look, maybe I can help. I take Tramadol for pain. I could give you some and, well, if you let me go, you’d save yourself the hassle of dealing with my body—maybe take a day off. I won’t tell anyone. The light’s behind you—I can barely see your face. I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to. What do you think?”
The man stops pacing. Something shifts in his expression.
“You have Tramadol?”
“Yeah, yeah, always carry some in my pants.”
“Oh wow, nice.” The man walks back to the crumpled pile of clothes in the corner and starts rummaging through them. “What do you need it for?”
“Back injury. Construction accident. Three herniated discs. Sometimes the pain gets to my head.”
“Chronic pain, huh?” The man’s voice carries a note of genuine interest. “How long?”
“Eighteen years.”
He pauses, expectant. The man stops searching. Looks up.
“Eighteen years. Jesus. And you still… function normally?”
“You learn to live with it. It’s just… background noise after a while.”
“Background noise. Sure.” The man laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You know what I think? I think you’ve just gotten used to lying to yourself. Eighteen years. That’s not adapting. That’s surrender.”
“My name’s Lluís, by the way. You don’t have to tell me yours, of course.”
“Oh, right, yeah. Head’s all over with this migraine. Normally I do a proper introduction and all. I’m Joan. Nice to meet you. I would shake your hand, but—you know.” He starts again to search through the pockets. “Eighteen years, huh? You never think about… you know. Ending it?”
He asks the question like someone talking about a menu.
“Sometimes. Bad days. But then I think about my wife, Empar. My daughter, Maria. The pain is mine, but ending it would give it to them. Forever. And they don’t deserve it.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Lluís. You think your wife doesn’t hurt? Your daughter?” Joan tilts his head, scratches his forearm with the cutter. “Give it time.”
Joan finds small plastic sachets. Holds them up to the flickering light.
“Joan, what do you say about my offer? Take the medicine, let me go, get some rest. Might do you good—”
“No, no, no, NO!” Joan spins around, furious. “What the fuck is this?!” He’s holding up a sachet, shaking it. “Fucking ORAL solution?! Do you know what that does to my stomach?”
“It’s the only kind I have—”
“Easier to carry. Right. Convenient.” Joan’s voice drops, suddenly cold. “You know what’s not convenient? This.” He taps his temple with the cutter. “Every day. No breaks. No fucking sachets to make it stop.”
He takes a step forward.
“Maybe I should show you what that feels like. Slow. So you understand.”
A pause. Something loosens behind his eyes.
“Oh… right. The Tums. Bought some the other day.”
He pats his pockets with the same absent-minded rhythm he used on the cutter, like he’s looking for a TV remote during an ad break.
“Yeah. Should help.”
Tears run down Lluís’ cheeks. Piss down his leg again. He’s frozen. Numb.
Joan moves, trying not to step in the urine with his house slippers. Like a worker looking at a leak.
“Are you really pissing while I’m talking? You have no manners, man.” Joan seems really disappointed.
He opens the sachet with the cutter and downs the Tramadol.
“Ugh, that tastes like dog shit, you know?” He makes a face like a child taking cough syrup. “Alright, I’ll take some Tums and lie down a bit. Try to feel better.”
He heads toward the door. Looks back at Lluís.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t bother screaming. We’re deep enough for no one to hear. And I would like some rest.”
“Please let me go… I swear I won’t tell anyone…”
“Nah. I appreciate the Tramadol, really I do. You seem decent.” Joan shrugs. “But decent doesn’t help. Nothing helps. That’s the whole point.”
He pauses at the door.
“I’ll make it quick. So—cheer up.”
The door shuts. The silence settles over him, heavy and suffocating.
Lluís hangs in the flickering light. Sweat down his back. The weight of his own body.
He thinks about Empar clearing the dishes. Maria asking where he is. The empty chair.
Pray.
He forces the word to become action. His lips move. The old words come back—hallowed be, forgive us, deliver us—but they feel like sounds without weight. Decades since he believed anyone was listening.
Eighteen years of learning to function through pain. All of it stacked inside him, not leading anywhere—just accumulating until now. This basement. This drain.
He tries to move. Can’t feel his hands. His back is killing him.
The Tramadol in Joan’s system is the only thing connecting them now. The same molecules that have carried Lluís through eighteen years of marriage, parenthood, career—now flowing through the bloodstream of his executioner.
Somewhere far above the concrete, a door closes. Footsteps. Then nothing.
Lluís closes his eyes. Somewhere above him, in a world that already feels like a memory, Empar is setting the table for three.
A very interesting vignette. I feel it sets up for something impactful, but then stops. An extension would be perfect.
Do you write also in Catalan? I just got started writing in that language for a local open mic group. It's quite difficult, a challenge but at least I can count on some people to help me.
I was going to ask for a reason for this, but there never is one, is there? Cruelty does what it does.