It's one of mine, written under the pen name of my alter ego. Warning - it's rather darker than anything of mine that you made have read before.
Whatever happened to my dreams?
I don’t need an alarm to wake me up now; I have my own, inbuilt system to do that. The expensive radio alarm that my wife bought stands idly on the bedside cabinet, slowly and regularly clicking away the minutes of the night.
Sometimes I lay in what passes for wakedness, counting along with the numbers as they change. I can vouch that the clock does this correctly, so far it has not missed any numbers; they all seem to be there, making their appearance, one after the other in a regular, monotonous sequence, leading me towards daylight.
I wake, watching the numbers as they change, mocking me, challenging me to stay a while longer. I cannot stay, I must not delay, for my medicine beckons. Without my medicine, that senses-deadening potion, the dreams will return. I can’t allow that to happen. I drag myself from the clinging blankets, and step into the tingling cold of the bedroom.
I don’t need a light to see where I’m going. I know where I have to go. I know exactly where my medicine is, and stumble towards the dispensary where I keep my opiates, ready for use. It is eight short steps to the door, I know, because I have counted them thousands of times. From the door it is three more to the shelf where I know I will find the bottles. First the plain glass tumbler. I have no more crystal glasses left, but who cares? I don’t. They were all broken, some by accident, some by despair. These were another reminder of what was before, bought by Jennifer, before she walked away.
To the right of the tumbler is the whiskey, a large bottle, then the gin, a small one. The vodka standing tall next in line dwarfs the rum, pushed to the back of the shelf. I do not like the stuff for it makes me sick and being sick rids me of the medicine and its numbing properties. No, no rum, except when I have drunk everything else.
I remove the cap off the whisky; I savour the state of well-being it brings. I pride myself I can half fill the glass without spilling a drop of the precious liquid. Carefully, I replace the cap and put the bottle back in its place then return to my bed, where I sit on the edge, feet on the cold floor. I look for my shoes, but I can’t remember where I threw them.
Even in the dark, I can ‘see’ the liquid in the glass, I can smell the heady aroma, but what the hell, it isn’t the aroma I need. I take the first drink. I feel the warmth of the fire as it rushes down the gullet, on its way to extinguish the burning images of my son. One more swallow and the tumbler is empty, but the image is still there in my mind.
Quickly now, I take the ten and a half steps to my dispensary, the half being because I stumble a little and lean forward to reach for the vodka. I have found that a half measure of this will work faster than the whiskey. It burns more fiercely as I gulp it down. Holding on to the shelf, I start to cough as the fire engulfs my chest and stomach, then I finish the glass to ease the cough. This seems to work, and the images are receding too.
I take another measure of vodka and leave the closet, walking slowly out of the bedroom and downstairs. Now I can start my day with whatever it brings. The kitchen is another room in the apartment, just another place, nothing more. What was once a happy place is now a morgue, merely a shell containing memories of happy times. I shuffle past the spot where David used to take his breakfast and I switch on the kettle to make coffee.
Half and half is what I call it. Half coffee, half vodka from another bottle. Should I call it codka, voffee, I wonder? No, vodcoffee it is. Sustaining, nourishing and deadening, hot flavoured vodka. This helps keeps the nightmare at bay. The nightmares that attack me at all times of the day and night. Always the same. Never any change. Like a film, a multicoloured film, playing over and over again.
David, my son – no, our son, happy as ever he had a right to be, newly graduated, with his beautiful girlfriend. Smashed out of this life by a lowlife scum. One moment there, laughing and joking, next moment not. Suddenly, just like that, his life snatched away by a drunken driver, sozzled out of his mind at eight thirty in the morning.
David’s life, the young life that was so full of happiness and promise, so young and caring, my beautiful son, was snatched away, wiped away in one moment of horror. The drunken swine behind the wheel did not know. He did not know what devastation he had caused when his car swerved and crushed the boy against that wall. The bastard was immune from harm, he was well anaesthetised from the pain and havoc. He should have been the one to die. How I wish he had. I passionately wish he had perished in that crash - for this was my son we are talking about. My son, our son, who was dispatched from this world far too early.
I get myself another tumbler of medicine, whiskey for a change. As I gulp the stuff down, the realisation works its way to the forefront of my numbed brain. I have known for a long time who was responsible, who the driver was. I have always known who the craven, miserable, drunken, cowardly and worthless bastard was who took away my son’s life.
It was me.
© 2007 Ambrose Salathiel
I don’t need an alarm to wake me up now; I have my own, inbuilt system to do that. The expensive radio alarm that my wife bought stands idly on the bedside cabinet, slowly and regularly clicking away the minutes of the night.
Sometimes I lay in what passes for wakedness, counting along with the numbers as they change. I can vouch that the clock does this correctly, so far it has not missed any numbers; they all seem to be there, making their appearance, one after the other in a regular, monotonous sequence, leading me towards daylight.
I wake, watching the numbers as they change, mocking me, challenging me to stay a while longer. I cannot stay, I must not delay, for my medicine beckons. Without my medicine, that senses-deadening potion, the dreams will return. I can’t allow that to happen. I drag myself from the clinging blankets, and step into the tingling cold of the bedroom.
I don’t need a light to see where I’m going. I know where I have to go. I know exactly where my medicine is, and stumble towards the dispensary where I keep my opiates, ready for use. It is eight short steps to the door, I know, because I have counted them thousands of times. From the door it is three more to the shelf where I know I will find the bottles. First the plain glass tumbler. I have no more crystal glasses left, but who cares? I don’t. They were all broken, some by accident, some by despair. These were another reminder of what was before, bought by Jennifer, before she walked away.
To the right of the tumbler is the whiskey, a large bottle, then the gin, a small one. The vodka standing tall next in line dwarfs the rum, pushed to the back of the shelf. I do not like the stuff for it makes me sick and being sick rids me of the medicine and its numbing properties. No, no rum, except when I have drunk everything else.
I remove the cap off the whisky; I savour the state of well-being it brings. I pride myself I can half fill the glass without spilling a drop of the precious liquid. Carefully, I replace the cap and put the bottle back in its place then return to my bed, where I sit on the edge, feet on the cold floor. I look for my shoes, but I can’t remember where I threw them.
Even in the dark, I can ‘see’ the liquid in the glass, I can smell the heady aroma, but what the hell, it isn’t the aroma I need. I take the first drink. I feel the warmth of the fire as it rushes down the gullet, on its way to extinguish the burning images of my son. One more swallow and the tumbler is empty, but the image is still there in my mind.
Quickly now, I take the ten and a half steps to my dispensary, the half being because I stumble a little and lean forward to reach for the vodka. I have found that a half measure of this will work faster than the whiskey. It burns more fiercely as I gulp it down. Holding on to the shelf, I start to cough as the fire engulfs my chest and stomach, then I finish the glass to ease the cough. This seems to work, and the images are receding too.
I take another measure of vodka and leave the closet, walking slowly out of the bedroom and downstairs. Now I can start my day with whatever it brings. The kitchen is another room in the apartment, just another place, nothing more. What was once a happy place is now a morgue, merely a shell containing memories of happy times. I shuffle past the spot where David used to take his breakfast and I switch on the kettle to make coffee.
Half and half is what I call it. Half coffee, half vodka from another bottle. Should I call it codka, voffee, I wonder? No, vodcoffee it is. Sustaining, nourishing and deadening, hot flavoured vodka. This helps keeps the nightmare at bay. The nightmares that attack me at all times of the day and night. Always the same. Never any change. Like a film, a multicoloured film, playing over and over again.
David, my son – no, our son, happy as ever he had a right to be, newly graduated, with his beautiful girlfriend. Smashed out of this life by a lowlife scum. One moment there, laughing and joking, next moment not. Suddenly, just like that, his life snatched away by a drunken driver, sozzled out of his mind at eight thirty in the morning.
David’s life, the young life that was so full of happiness and promise, so young and caring, my beautiful son, was snatched away, wiped away in one moment of horror. The drunken swine behind the wheel did not know. He did not know what devastation he had caused when his car swerved and crushed the boy against that wall. The bastard was immune from harm, he was well anaesthetised from the pain and havoc. He should have been the one to die. How I wish he had. I passionately wish he had perished in that crash - for this was my son we are talking about. My son, our son, who was dispatched from this world far too early.
I get myself another tumbler of medicine, whiskey for a change. As I gulp the stuff down, the realisation works its way to the forefront of my numbed brain. I have known for a long time who was responsible, who the driver was. I have always known who the craven, miserable, drunken, cowardly and worthless bastard was who took away my son’s life.
It was me.
© 2007 Ambrose Salathiel
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