The Leech That Hangs Onto Mr.Banks

Mr.Banks wakes up to the same feeling every morning.

Gnawing, chewing, blood-sucking, there is nothing more that he expects the minute he opens his eyes. 

The leech drains him, morning to night. It lays on the floor, hanging onto the skin of his forearm. Mr.Banks rises from his bed, and as he drags the leech from the floor, and the leech drags his forearm down. 

Mr.Banks has lived like this for an entire year. By now, he’s used to it. He does the same thing he does everyday, just with the added weight. He puts on his shoes, dusts off his suit, ties his own tie, and lifts his sleeve so that the leech can feed. 

The streets are crowded, and although a taxi would be nice, Mr.Banks has little time to catch one in the moment between his black coffee and stuffing cigar packets into his right pocket. He runs to the subway station, as the leech gets kicked by stacks of dirty steps. The doors open, and tiredly, Mr.Banks stuffs himself into a seat, the leech sits next to him like a dog. If leeches had big, grossly beady eyes, I think the leech would look at Mr.Banks with them.

It’s 9:00 p.m, and Mr.Banks sits in his cubicle. Eyes red, hands clicking, and time ticking. The leech sits under his office chair, pulling onto him. As much as Mr.Banks lets the leech suck, it’s not surprise that Mr.Banks feels its annoyance, he kicks the leech. Mr.Banks wishes leeches could speak, only so he could hear it scream.

Mr.Banks is in bed again. He only knows of restless nights since the leech first latched onto him. 

Mr.Banks grabs a handful of salt.