Confessions of the Fallen (Excerpt #3)
She was perched on the edge of their bed, rocking slowly back and forth. He watched her for a time, half-mesmerized by the solemn rhythmic motion. Fear welled in the pit of his stomach, and nausea came in waves. This was the third time this week he had awoken to her silent agitation. He felt powerless. His age-spotted hand found her shoulder, she paused for a moment, and then continued her rocking. At times she would mumble things, most of them incoherent. He sighed and wiped a tear from his own cheek. Rising from the mattress, his arthritic feet combed the floor at the edge of the bed for his slippers. Sleep had fled for the evening, he would not find it again tonight.
The bathroom was a few steps from the edge of her side of the bed. By memory and the red glow of an alarm clock he crossed the room. He did not look at her as he passed before her, turning on the light and closing the door behind him. He gripped the edges of the sink and stared hard into the mirror. The granite eyes that greeted him seemed alien, if a soul was even lit beneath them, it was faint. Had the figure in the glass not moved in time with him, he would have sworn he beheld a carcass and not a living creature. The skin on his face hung off the bone in loose folds. He stroked them with his hands and noted that a shave would soon be required. The man in the slippers smoothed the hair atop his head until it lay flat against his scalp. Not that there was much to smooth anymore, but the movement was a practiced one. The old man squinted into the mirror again, trying to remember something or trying to forget, he was never sure which of the two he wanted these days.
The bathroom was lit by a single bulb to his left. The bulb was one of a set of five. He lacked the ambition to replace the other four and had grown accustomed to the softer light. If the old washroom could speak, it would thank him for that. The tiled floor was cracked in more places than he could count and lathered with grime and mold. The once eggshell shower had yellowed with hard water and age to the point as though it seemed some delinquent had relieved himself repeatedly against its walls.
No matter, a few more months and the house would be the city’s problem. The light in her eyes was receding day by day and when she left this earth, he would too. There was a bottle of sleeping pills to ensure that much. He wondered how many it would take; three, ten? 'Best take the whole damn bottle just to be safe,’ he thought to himself, fingering the knob of the medicine cabinet. He wondered if anyone would notice. The slippered man thought for a moment he should call the county before he took the pills. Better not, they might arrive in enough time to resuscitate his corpse. He decided he would rot beside his wife, become another bit of filth, another stain in the decrepit house. Ah well, not tonight; he was too tired tonight.
He eased his aching body down on the toilet seat and ran his hands across his seamed face. God, he wanted a drink, even a cigarette would do. He gave both of them up decades ago in exchange for a Bible. At present, he regretted that decision. Perhaps Jesus could forgive him for his sins, but no one else could; at least whisky had the power to shut them all up. That Bible was useful only to burn for warmth in the event the city shut the electric off as they had threatened. The room shifted around him as the dim light of the washroom played with his mind and he started to dream without closing his eyes.
A boy stood before him, fifteen years old and enraged, a fire burning in his eyes white hot. The slippered man felt like fury sear his lungs and face and rolled a lit cigarette between his fingers. He grabbed the boy by the arm, wrapping tightly long yellowed fingers around a small pale elbow. A sadist’s smile ripped his face from ear to ear as he held the burning end against youthful flesh. The boy did not cry out, and did not look away. The black-haired miscreant only watched the skin bubble and blister silently. The boy even seemed to enjoy it, one fire feeding another, he watched hungrily.
The old man started awake. His son’s face danced in his mind. The slippered man had always been a violent drunk. When he found the church, he would say that the alcohol had created in him a monster, but that was only half true. The monster was born when he left his mother’s womb and it would die when he finally did. Ethanol had only cut the lock on its cage.