twitched, trying to catch the scent of
methane, of rot, of shit and crap; but nothing came. Tom’s sense of smell had
been killed decades earlier.
“Damn you, brother,” he muttered,
and glanced around before pulling out the bottle and taking a hefty swig. He
felt the cold behind his eyeballs, and lowered the bottle, spluttering, piss
whiskey warm on his lips and burning in his gullet. His ulcer stung, but he
ignored the pain. It would soon leave him, along with his sobriety.
Once, Tom would have said, “I’m
just popping out for a walk, honey.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ve put a
beef casserole in the oven. Be back by five.”
Now, he knew, she knew, they all
knew, “just popping for a walk” was a prelude to “just nipping out to drink
until I puke,” and he didn’t say the words, and by not saying the words he knew
he wouldn’t get into another argument.
She’ll leave you.
No, she won’t.
She will. She’s sick of your
drinking, falling on your face, bloodying your nose, not coming home at night,
leaving her worrying and shivering in a cold bed alone, looking after Jenny and
Saul alone, going through her life... alone.
No. She understands me. She
supports me. She loves me. Everything will be okay. But it wasn’t okay. And Tom knew
his mother was dying. He looked into those eyes which had once sparkled so
brightly, but now were dimmed, like failing, tumbling stars. Brittle and
broken, she was. Eaten inside. Too far gone to help.
My poor mother. I can’t take it!
I’ll just have another drink...
And that’s what this was, a walk
in the hills, a drink in the hills, to get over the knowledge that his mother
was dying. Had mere days left. And he knew, knew he should be by her
side, holding her hand, telling her he loved her just like his brother was. But
he didn’t. He wasn’t. He needed a drink. Just a couple. To get over the
knowledge that she was leaving this mortal realm...
“Be a man,” his brother would
say.
“Fuck you, Kaylo!” he would
snarl.
“Don’t blame me for what we did,”
his brother would say.
“Go back to your evil,” Old Tom
would snarl.
“Tom. Tom. We started this
together, Tom.”
“Go to Hell.”
And Kaylo would smile, and his
eyes shone like tiny candle lights, and his face was rugged and strong and
handsome and Tom reached for his bottle, and downed another drink.
~ * ~
TOM’S
BOOTS CRUNCHED on the gravel path as he moved further up into the hills,
through forests of twisted old trees, diseased from the junk in the ground and
sporting weird and wonderful corrugated bark, a testament to some ancient
pollutant. The whole world is poisoned, he thought. And laughed. My
whole mind is poisoned!
He stopped after a few more
minutes, panting, sweating, and had another drink. He spluttered, piss whiskey
burning his lips, and turned. Lights glittered through the fast-falling
darkness and the valley spread out before him: the valley of his childhood, the
valley of his adolescence, the valley of his adulthood. Kavusco. The town of
his life. He’d been born there, he lived there, and he would die there.
And there’d been so many changes.
From Beauty to Desecration.
Old Tom lowered his head and
wept...
~ * ~
I
LIVE IN a fucking soap-opera, thought Jenny as her eyes flared open. She lay
there, staring at the ghost. It was a white apparition. Shimmering. Ethereal.
It reached out a hand to her, and smiled. And, like she did every other
morning, Jenny reached out a hand to her sister. Her dead sister.
“You are sad,” said the ghost.
“Yes,” said Jenny, clutching the
covers that little bit more tightly.
“Bad dream?”
“I always have bad dreams,” said
Jenny, face neutral.
“You still full of hate?”
Slowly, Jenny’s lip curled into a
snarl and the reality of her situation and the reality of the world came
tumbling back into
methane, of rot, of shit and crap; but nothing came. Tom’s sense of smell had
been killed decades earlier.
“Damn you, brother,” he muttered,
and glanced around before pulling out the bottle and taking a hefty swig. He
felt the cold behind his eyeballs, and lowered the bottle, spluttering, piss
whiskey warm on his lips and burning in his gullet. His ulcer stung, but he
ignored the pain. It would soon leave him, along with his sobriety.
Once, Tom would have said, “I’m
just popping out for a walk, honey.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ve put a
beef casserole in the oven. Be back by five.”
Now, he knew, she knew, they all
knew, “just popping for a walk” was a prelude to “just nipping out to drink
until I puke,” and he didn’t say the words, and by not saying the words he knew
he wouldn’t get into another argument.
She’ll leave you.
No, she won’t.
She will. She’s sick of your
drinking, falling on your face, bloodying your nose, not coming home at night,
leaving her worrying and shivering in a cold bed alone, looking after Jenny and
Saul alone, going through her life... alone.
No. She understands me. She
supports me. She loves me. Everything will be okay. But it wasn’t okay. And Tom knew
his mother was dying. He looked into those eyes which had once sparkled so
brightly, but now were dimmed, like failing, tumbling stars. Brittle and
broken, she was. Eaten inside. Too far gone to help.
My poor mother. I can’t take it!
I’ll just have another drink...
And that’s what this was, a walk
in the hills, a drink in the hills, to get over the knowledge that his mother
was dying. Had mere days left. And he knew, knew he should be by her
side, holding her hand, telling her he loved her just like his brother was. But
he didn’t. He wasn’t. He needed a drink. Just a couple. To get over the
knowledge that she was leaving this mortal realm...
“Be a man,” his brother would
say.
“Fuck you, Kaylo!” he would
snarl.
“Don’t blame me for what we did,”
his brother would say.
“Go back to your evil,” Old Tom
would snarl.
“Tom. Tom. We started this
together, Tom.”
“Go to Hell.”
And Kaylo would smile, and his
eyes shone like tiny candle lights, and his face was rugged and strong and
handsome and Tom reached for his bottle, and downed another drink.
~ * ~
TOM’S
BOOTS CRUNCHED on the gravel path as he moved further up into the hills,
through forests of twisted old trees, diseased from the junk in the ground and
sporting weird and wonderful corrugated bark, a testament to some ancient
pollutant. The whole world is poisoned, he thought. And laughed. My
whole mind is poisoned!
He stopped after a few more
minutes, panting, sweating, and had another drink. He spluttered, piss whiskey
burning his lips, and turned. Lights glittered through the fast-falling
darkness and the valley spread out before him: the valley of his childhood, the
valley of his adolescence, the valley of his adulthood. Kavusco. The town of
his life. He’d been born there, he lived there, and he would die there.
And there’d been so many changes.
From Beauty to Desecration.
Old Tom lowered his head and
wept...
~ * ~
I
LIVE IN a fucking soap-opera, thought Jenny as her eyes flared open. She lay
there, staring at the ghost. It was a white apparition. Shimmering. Ethereal.
It reached out a hand to her, and smiled. And, like she did every other
morning, Jenny reached out a hand to her sister. Her dead sister.
“You are sad,” said the ghost.
“Yes,” said Jenny, clutching the
covers that little bit more tightly.
“Bad dream?”
“I always have bad dreams,” said
Jenny, face neutral.
“You still full of hate?”
Slowly, Jenny’s lip curled into a
snarl and the reality of her situation and the reality of the world came
tumbling back into
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