Slippin' Into Darkness: Pt. 1
by Butch RosserHome | Columns | Fiction | Transcripts
He didn't drink to get through life--he got through life to drink. People encouraged him to go outside. Why? Miserable outside, there could be people and couples and attractive women and all the things a vengeful OldTestament God hath denied him slapping him across the face. Miserable inside, there was a dish and his stolen MP3s and his by god porno.
Another Corona, his fifth of the evening. Coupled with the sextuplet of Heinkens he'd consume he was very well into the realm of ass-wasted. It was hilarious: there was a jumping party going on around him, it was only 11:30, and he was in his alleged glory years.
He should've been having the time of his life.
He wasn't. And all the drinking couldn't quell the voices in his head when he allowed them a moments peace.
He kept feeding them the alcohol but it just wasn't taking. They kept talking about Rosalinda. People said it was better to have loved and lost than to had never loved at all. These were the same people who said winning wasn't everything, and right now he was in the mood to find these lying scumbags and run them over with a '57 Buick.
Memories that had once filled him with such glee and joy began to cut at him. A trickle of blood appeared at his fingertips. Slowly, his hand turned red, and then the other. He was bleeding to death. He reached out for help. They danced obliviously around him. Slowly, he felt himself become one with the floor. He crawled through legs to find a corner to prop himself up, see where the wound was.
He was the wound. A heart, now 98% scar tissue, had been merely bumped into. The hardened skin cracked and broke, the blood rushed out the opening. He searched himself frantically.
He was fine. Just a little heartbroken.
But another night with an empty bed staring up at the ceiling come 4 a.m. awaited. And he wanted no part of it.
He went to get another drink.
He prayed he wouldn't bleed.
He knew he would.
His body tensed up against the cold, a quick spasmic jerk and it was all done with.
There wasn't a point anymore, really. He was reliving Groundhog Day without the humor, wit, or falling in love with Andie McDowell. Sighing as he idly stroked his stomach, he smashed a peanut butter cup into his cookie and cream, swirling it around for maximum enjoyment. He heard a car out on the street and saw the city lights when he looked out the window. The assortment of red, yellow, and greeen seduced him with their siren song for a short time before he pulled the blind shut.
It was 2:17 in the morning. He wanted to go to bed.
He didn't want to think about Rosalinda. Sleep was the only refuge left. It wasn't that it produced a series of Hollywood cliched dreams where she ran to him in a field of buttercups, but that as the year had worn on, he'd gotten more and more dream-free in his sleep. Sleep allowed him to ignore the 500-pound gorilla beating its chest in the corner while dancing the Lindy. Better sleep than the waking sleep, better than the moving coma he'd become, better than living the lie.
Work was unglorious and unfruitful, leaving him unfulfilled. Family took pity upon him what few times they bothered to keep in touch. Friends attempted to reach out, except they had club meetings and football games and people who loved them.
So there he sat alone.
He couldn't even muster up the strength to cry about it anymore. The constant "Why?" ran in his head. Attempts to distract it momentarily usually paid off, but sooner or later he'd spend a long time alone and it came back to him.
Walking the apartment alone to store the ice cream, all he could hear was the eels from his boom box drift through the hall. Outside of the television, the house was all darkness. Pretty, painful piano-playing ripples wafted through the house. He sighed. As he walked back to bed, it gave way to the Lightning Seeds' cover of "You Showed Me". He didn't set an alarm, his day off was coming up.
His plan was to not go crazy. Not give in to his wish to cut himself to feel a thing beyond resigned apathy. Someday he would get over this, but someday was taking it's sweet time getting there. He flipped the pillow over to the cool side and pulled the blanket over his shoulders.
An itch suddenly broke out on him. He prayed for sleep to come quick and take long.
Very soon, he would wake up alone.
Going without.
Starting again.