Date: Thu, 25 Mar 2004 21:16:21 -0700 From: Robert B <robert_b9968 (at) hotmail.com> Subject: Where We Were 1 Author's note: I began this story about a month or two ago, in the middle of a very dark period of my life. Some parts of it are based on facts and events from my own past, but the bulk of the plot is fictional. Which parts are true, I leave for the reader to deduce. If you have any comments or questions, I'd love to hear them. I'm not sure what I think of the story myself yet, so early critics will have valuable influence! My e-mail is: robert (at) hotmail.com [Insert @ instead of (at) to e-mail me. It's a proven spam-prevention technique.] + Robert B. + aka, Spade ------------------------------------------------ The familiar pain wormed its way through my body with agonizing slowness. It choked my heart like a spiteful snake, and stabbed at my mind like a dull knife. My breathing was ragged again, and my muscles twitched violently as I physically tried to run away from the unbearable thoughts that tortured me. I wanted to scream. I wanted it all to stop. At least I was still asleep. Dreams stopped being dreams for me a long time ago. Now I spent my nights forced to confront my repressed memories, left with no choice but to face the morbid truths of my life and fear where my fate would inevitably lead me. An especially disturbing nightmare made me sit bolt upright in bed and choke out several gasped obscenities. No, please, that couldn't have been a memory. It never actually happened. I needed to forget it again. I just needed a drink. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and leaned heavily on my knees, trying to focus on the glaring red digits of my alarm clock. Four in the morning, and I knew there was almost no chance of my getting back to sleep. But a drink would help. Nobody else was awake yet, so the liquor cabinet downstairs would be left unguarded. Shaking my head in pained regret, I stood up and began to pace back and forth in my dark room. Drinking wasn't an option. It wasn't! I swore to myself that I would stay sober exactly four weeks, five days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes ago. In all that time, I hadn't taken a single drink. I knew that I needed to get away from the house. The bottles hiding downstairs called too strongly for me to ignore, and if I didn't leave then I might not be able to fight them off for much longer. I quickly took any random clothes from the closet and slung on a jacket before walking immediately out the front door. My destination was a small cafe near school which should be opened by the time I arrived. Stepping inside the heated lobby after walking miles through the dead of winter, I could relax and feel temporarily safe. I greeted the staff by name and made some casual small talk as they filled my customary order without need for instruction. They sometimes asked me how I was awake so early, or why I would visit so often with hours remaining before the school opened or the sun rose. If they only knew the truth. Once I received my wonderfully hot coffee, I moved to a window. For a while, I tried to find the moon, only to decide it was hidden behind one of the many storm clouds filling the sky. As I continued looking outward, my sight eventually was drawn to the bright lights of a nearby grocery store. I knew that alcohol was for sale there, and there was no security to speak of. The cravings wracked me and lured my thoughts, making me think the unreasonable with a sense of desperate truth. 'I really do deserve a drink,' I said silently to myself. 'Almost five weeks sober deserves some reward. I would be such a better person if I could simply let myself heal, and whiskey helps so very much. It's not healthy for me to go so long without a drink. I need to do this. How much can just one hurt?' So I left the cafe and walked in a trance toward the grocery store. A shadowed figure huddling near the entrance suddenly quivered, attracting my attention. I heard violent coughing come from that direction, and pity overcame my desperate impatience. I took a moment to investigate, simply to ensure that the person wasn't critically injured in any way. Nothing short of a mortal wound could keep me from hurrying to that drink. I could slowly make out more details as I came closer. Behind layers of dirt and grime, I could see the face of a boy not far from my age. Under different circumstances, I might have called him cute, but aged filth and a weary hardness marred his countenance. Dried channels of mud running down his face told me that he had been crying not long ago, and his bloodshot eyes glared at me with furious suspicion for intruding on his privacy. His whole body was trembling severely, and he hugged himself tightly to conserve some little warmth. The filthy, tattered clothing he wore was obviously serving a poor defense against the bitter chill. Taking pity, I took the risk of venturing a few steps nearer. "Drink this. It'll warm you up." I offered my nearly-full cup of steaming coffee. "I don't need it." He muttered weakly, with what sounded like a slight slur. "Well, take it anyway." Although aware that he could easily be armed, I moved directly in front of the boy and set down my drink before backing cautiously away. "What's the catch?" He countered angrily with a more obvious slur this time. "There's no catch...." I began, then I understood what he felt. He would never accept my charity, and I empathized with the principle. Men like him and I cannot tolerate pity. "Well, whatever. I don't want it, so if you don't want it either just do me a favor and throw it away for me." "Fuck you, I ain't a trashman." He growled indignantly under his breath. I merely stood silent as he gazed longingly at the steaming cup for several long moments. Finally he looked fearfully into my eyes and mumbled an almost silent, "Thanks." Nodding without a word, I moved on. At the entrance of the store, I looked over my shoulder in time to watch him pour something from a paper bag lovingly into the coffee. I understood what he felt. Some time later, I stealthily walked back out of the store with a small bottle secreted into my jacket's hidden pocket. I saw the cup was now empty and lying on its side, rolling lightly with the freezing wind. The boy was limp and seemed to not feel the biting cold any more. I wanted to run away immediately and drink my precious prize, but something drew me over toward the motionless vagrant. A large bottle of everclear lay in shattered pieces at the base of a wall across from him, as if it had been forcefully thrown, but the lack of a puddle suggested it was already emptied. I recognized an open box on the ground near the boy, and another, and another. They were empty containers for sleeping pills. Again, I suddenly understood just how he felt. I rushed to the boy's side and shouted loudly for help, but the deed was already done. His breathing was sluggish and his pulse beat erratically. Holding his hand firmly, I ordered him to focus, tried to somehow keep him conscious. Looking into his glassy eyes, I could see a grim contentment shine through. "Go...home...." Was the last thing he said to me. Then his eyes closed, and his hand relaxed in my grasp. I continued to hold him, shouting desperately for help.