He was drinking, sure. He remembers that, the harsh vodka burning his throat just like it did back home, the familiar pain a soft bandage that covers up all the agonies of the last month. He remembers tipping the bartender with money he couldn't afford to tip. He remembers cracks in the floors, cracks in the walls, blurry faces of the other bargoers that he couldn't stand to look at, and then -- had he been trying to leave? Is that it?
Was he looking for quiet?
He braces one hand against the mirror and uses the other to shift his once broken nose back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He studies his face for mismatches in skin tone, invisible sutures, body parts that don't (and can't) really belong to him. He shoves his hand under his shirt to feel for holes in his chest. He chokes.
This is an opportunity, he tries to tell himself. This is a blessing. How many writers who write about death have actually, truly experienced it for themselves?
(How many get to experience it again and again and again at the cost of their loved ones who depend on them?)
"This is an opportunity," he says, scratching the tears from his eyes. He pounds his fist into the mirror, hard enough to rattle the frame. He hisses the words, furious with himself for his fear, his desperation, his hopelessness. "This is an opportunity."
no subject
He was drinking, sure. He remembers that, the harsh vodka burning his throat just like it did back home, the familiar pain a soft bandage that covers up all the agonies of the last month. He remembers tipping the bartender with money he couldn't afford to tip. He remembers cracks in the floors, cracks in the walls, blurry faces of the other bargoers that he couldn't stand to look at, and then -- had he been trying to leave? Is that it?
Was he looking for quiet?
He braces one hand against the mirror and uses the other to shift his once broken nose back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He studies his face for mismatches in skin tone, invisible sutures, body parts that don't (and can't) really belong to him. He shoves his hand under his shirt to feel for holes in his chest. He chokes.
This is an opportunity, he tries to tell himself. This is a blessing. How many writers who write about death have actually, truly experienced it for themselves?
(How many get to experience it again and again and again at the cost of their loved ones who depend on them?)
"This is an opportunity," he says, scratching the tears from his eyes. He pounds his fist into the mirror, hard enough to rattle the frame. He hisses the words, furious with himself for his fear, his desperation, his hopelessness. "This is an opportunity."