Malcolm Steadman will dial the suicide hotline in 46 days.
The aroma of the port wine felt sweet and heavy as Malcolm Steadman poured it into a glass. He swirled it around merrily and admired its dark color. Setting it down, Malcolm moved on now to his stove where he removed two slices of fried bananas from the heated pan and lovingly placed them on top of his freshly made waffles. His happy stride was closer to that of a dance as he glided without worry and fetched the candied maple bacon strips from his other pan. His whistling was as light as his mood and became a sort of jazz as he drizzled melted peanut butter on top of his breakfast concoction. Malcolm rarely took the time to cook like this and admired his decadent plate with pride. He sat now, with his waffles in front of him, and his port wine back in his hand deliberately facing a blank wall. It was time for his scheduled panic attack.