The Wrong Sip

No one was surprised when he was found dead.

On the kitchen floor, the white tiles now painted a dark red, he lay.

The late summer flies had found his body long before his neighbours decided to reach out to authorities.

It was the worst suicide many of the officers and paramedics had seen.

His wrists were barley recognisable as the blood began to matt and crust over the erratic slashes and his eyes, vacant and broken, stared up at the dim light bulbs.

Tristan Baker was dead.

And no one was surprised.

_______________________

The shrill squeal of young children rung out from the neatly trimmed oval as parents stood around and spilled their sweet Chinese whispers. Soccer balls were weakly kicked about, and volunteers were handing out cheap bottles of water and orange peels.

If one were to snap a photo of the scene, it would appear like a typical Saturday morning kids’ soccer game; orchestrated by volunteers and the local soccer association that is strictly for the stay-at-home mums and the fathers that work away yet bring home a significant income.

Yet this Saturday’s game was one of the quieter ones. For the volunteer coach just lost his son to suicide the previous night and most of the parents deemed it insensitive to expect the man to coach a game when he should be in mourning.

But sure enough, like every Saturday, like clockwork, the man arrived at 9:00 am sharp.

Carrying the oversized bag of soccer balls and another smaller bag of rewards for his team that mostly consisted of miniature trophies from the nearby two-dollar store and the occasional bag of lollies.

He greeted the parents and children with his lopsided smile and his boisterous, “Are we ready team?!” Dropping his bags to the grass, he motioned for everyone to huddle, before giving his usual, “No matter what happens today,” spiel.

He put on a fantastic façade for the children, and the children only. He didn’t care about the parents. Most of them forced their children to come along for the sake of catching the latest gossip and the occasional swig of cheap wine from flasks while their children played horribly.

He clapped his hands together one final time before sending the team out on the field, knowing that, like every Saturday, they had no chance of winning the game. Yet he painted a bogus smile on his stubble-ridden face, so the kids had some hope, some reason to get involved.

“Uh, Justin, hi,” the man fell rapidly back into reality and as he turned to see who the voice belonged to, he realised that his thoughts were a much better place to be.

“Michelle.”

“Justin, some of the parents were talking - and whilst you’re doing an amazing job, - we think it might be better if we get a substitute coach in for a while. You know, give you a bit of a break,” the middle-aged lady stood alongside him. Her bleach-damaged hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her arms folded over her workout shirt, which had clearly, never been worn for the purpose of working out ever.

“Cutting right to the chase, aren’t we?” Justin grimaced, “I’m fine.”

“No, but you see- “

“How about you focus on you kid, hey? He’s picking his nose and eating the flowers. Again.” Justin pointed at the tubby blonde kid who was sitting in the goal; clearly more fascinated by what he found in his nose rather than the soccer ball that was haphazardly being aimed in his direction.

Michelle sniffed and glared at Justin for a brief moment before stalking away towards her child, “Jeremy, we spoke about this!”

Justin rolled his eyes and focused back on the game. He never liked the lady. Always had something to say about someone – especially his own child.

“He’s a disgrace.”

“Who does he owe money to now?”

“Junkie.”

“Crackhead.”

“He’ll end up dead in the streets before he gets clean.”

“He’s not welcomed here.”

Justin Baker’s son was dead.

And perhaps that was for the best.

_________________________

Slamming his car door shut, Justin jingled lazily through his assortment of keys as he slowly started on his short journey to his front door.

Honing his focus on finding the right key to unlock the wooden door, Justin missed the police car parked on the sidewalk, so when he glanced up, he slightly jumped at the sight of the young officer standing at his door.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the officer proceeded with caution, “I’m officer- “

“Just, why are you here?” Justin snapped unintentionally before quickly changing his tone to the family-friendly one he put on for the parents earlier, “Sorry man, tough soccer game. We lost. What would you like?”

The officer stared at Justin cautiously, and suddenly, Justin felt a slight shiver tangle its way up his spine.

“Your son, Tristan Baker? I came to return some evidence. We’ve ruled his death a suicide.”

“Well clearly,” Justin muttered, “Thanks.”

“Is there anyone you would like us to contact before sending his body to the funeral home for preparations? His mother, perhaps?”

“No,” Justin sighed irritably, “She’s been out the picture for a long time. Haven’t you heard all the stories?” Justin immediately regretted it.

Clearly the officer was new to the area, and that comment will now raise questions and cause yet another person, to hear the rumours that Justin supposedly killed his wife and dismembered her body in the forestry leading out of town.

He never knew who, or what, started the rumours, but they stopped pretty quickly the first time Tristan was arrested for the distribution of cannabis at the local – and only – high school.

The officer suddenly looked very awkward and his face reddened, “Well, I should, um, get back to the station. But er, here’s a note. We found it in Tristan’s bedroom when we arrived on scene.” He held out a yellowed envelope with crinkled corners and the officer’s light eyes sparkled with a hint of curiosity.

“Thanks, mate,” Justin cautiously accepted the note and grimaced. The officer nodded before quickly stepping aside to allow Justin to unlock his front door.

“I was told that you can let us know if you need anything,” the officer quickly added, “It’s OK to ask for help, that’s what we’re here for.”

“Mate, all I want right now is for people to stop showing me so much sympathy. It’s pitiful,” Justin was annoyed now. All he wanted to do was hide away from the public and treat himself to a few glasses of the strongest alcohol he had in his collection.

“Right, well, er, enjoy the rest of your Saturday,” the officer finished, before subconsciously kicking himself. Who says that to a father who’s just lost his kid? He quickly walked back to the police car, making it no secret that the whole interaction made him awkward and made him question why he chose this job.

Finally managing to fling the door open, Justin turned around in time to see curtains from his neighbour across the street slightly ruffle.

He was being watched.

______________________

~ 24 Hours Earlier ~

Tristan Baker was an interesting character, and although he didn’t have the best reputation, he knew what he was doing was the right thing.

Sitting on the corner of his unmade bed, Tristan scribbled into the little black journal that his mother had left him. The moleskin cover was beginning to rip, and fade and the pages were beginning to yellow, but he didn’t care. It was the only connection he had to his mother. The only thing that held him together.

Ripping out the page he was writing on, Tristan gently folded it into an envelope that he had found shoved under loose bits of paper that slept on his desk.

He sealed the envelope and laid it gently on his bed. The note would explain the other critical piece of paper inside the envelope and would surely make his father realise that he was a changed man.

A slight knock-on Tristan’s front door startled him.

He wasn’t expecting company, yet something comforted him and encouraged him to welcome the guest into his home.

“I didn’t know you were coming over,” Tristan smiled broadly, welcoming the unexpected visitor into his studio flat that was only rented to him because the owner needed the extra income.

“Thought we could have a few drinks.”

Tristan didn’t realise the mistake he had made until it was too late.

It only took a sip.

One sip and his body started aching and his limbs froze.

“I-“ was all he could splutter before his body numbly hit the tiles, his limbs splayed and his eyes stared coldly at the kitchen ceiling.

He barely felt the slice of the blade down his wrists.

He barely felt the hot blood spray and pour down his arms.

He barely felt the blade slip into one of his hands.

He barely felt anything.

He only felt his soul leave his body as his surroundings began to dim and distant shadow of the visitor begin to fade.

_______________________

Justin sat in the living room with the envelope in one hand and a drink in the other.

He gently slipped the note out.

Dad,

I’m sorry I haven’t been the perfect son you always wanted.

The one that played in every soccer game, the one that got perfect grades at school, the one that everyone loved.

Since my first charge I know you’ve looked at me differently. I know you’ve been ashamed of me.

But please believe me when I say this. I have been sober for eight months.

Eight months of sleepless nights and nothing but cravings.

But now I can say, with confidence, that I am clean, and I worked for it.

I have been working odd jobs to earn money and there is no one else that I would rather have it. So, take the money as a donation to your soccer team. They absolutely suck at the game, but they deserve the donation.

I love you, dad,

Tristan.

Justin opened the envelope further, to reveal a cheque.

With disbelief, Justin re-read the letter and then turned his attention to the cheque for $20,000.

Tristan had sobered up and spent the last eight months working just to help a kids’ soccer team that was coached and loved by his father.

Hot tears pricked the back of Justin’s eyes and his hand burned with utter guilt and rage.

The cheque crinkled in his hand and the near-empty glass of scotch fell, spilling, sinking into the carpet.

The tears were pouring down his cheeks now. Saturating his red and shameful face.

Justin Baker had lost his only son.

Tristan Baker was dead. Gone. Just like his mother.

Justin felt his heart shatter, puncturing his lungs and sending sharp shards of splinters into his chest.

For Justin Baker had murdered his only son.