Days Without

Ding…. Ding…. Ding……… Ding! Ding! Ding!

I rolled over and wiped my eyes. Shannon laid deathly still, wonderfully unbothered by the continual ringing. A feat, truly.

A pair of grey, cloth shorts were strewn across the floor. I picked them up and pulled them on, then quietly tiptoed around a few discarded beer cars and went down to the front door. My knees and hips ached as I eased down the steps one at a time.

Living had taken its toll and 27 felt more like 57. Some days my joints felt spry and athletic again, but the flashes were becoming increasingly infrequent. It made me sad. Sport had been such a great release, now it was just another relic of simpler, better days.

Despite what the blackout shades would have had me believe it was nearing 12pm. Behind the front door the sun was high in the sky and it was really bursting. The shine was prehistoric.

Out on the street there was a couple walking their golden retriever on the sidewalk, a few birds shredding through the soggy sky, and cars whizzing past my apartment door, but no one at the door. I turned to head back inside and a small, brown box caught my eye. It was tucked neatly into the mailbox. No recipient or return address.

I picked it up, paused for a second, then went back inside and put the package on the kitchen counter while I fixed a cup of coffee. I stared at the package while the coffee machine grumbled along. It was peculiar. I’d only been at my new spot for a month or so. Something gnawed at me, telling me not to open the box. I wondered if perhaps it was meant for the previous owner.

There was a glass bowl that my mother had gotten me as a housewarming gift next to the fridge. I fetched an orange out of it, along with small plate and a knife, then took the coffee and the package and headed back upstairs.

Shannon was still spilt across the bed like a bowl of cereal with her face in the pillows. I took the pack of Marlboro Reds off the nightstand and went out on the porch.

Everything was lined up perfectly. The plate sat in front of me with the knife and orange rested on its face. Steam rose off the coffee and melted into the steamy summer air.

The package stared at me. I stared back. We both said nothing.

I took a sip of coffee and felt some life start to shoot through my system. The hot liquid spilled down my throat and I could almost feel it running to the edges of my extremities. The Marlboros wanted to join the ceremony.

Click… Click! Click!

I took a deep pull in and out. The pressure of existing flattened slightly. With the cigarette dangling loosely off my lips, I picked up the knife and sliced the orange into eighths. The citrus jumped with each bite. It was crisp and refreshing.

Thrap… thrap… thrap…

The brown paper peeled off easily. I took the knife and slice through the top of the cardboard box and peered inside. It was a weathered journal with a soft, beige cover. I peeled back its shell and before my brain could digest a single word, my heart plummeted and my nerves pricked.

The handwriting jumped off the page. My chest tightened as I flipped through the pages and settled on a poem titled: Hanging in the Balance.

As we whisp through life,

not knowing what it all means,

wondering what it means… wondering what’s the point…

Torn between love and an obsession with what was next

&

diving into the darkness of the world.,

scratching and clawing for bliss and peace.

Desperate to know if it is, in fact, at all.

Sunshine or sniffles?

Memories or memoriam?

Where do all the bright-eyed, bubbly-faced children go?

Where do they go?

I bit into another eighth of the orange and sparked a fresh cigarette. I turned through the pages one by one, knowing all the while what I was headed for. On the top of the last page that same, wavy handwriting was smeared. It was big block lettering above a set of nine tallies that had been scribbled out it read:

Days Without

Each level down it was more of the same. Sometimes it was as many as 12 or 13 tallies, sometimes as few as two.

The glass doors slid open. Shannon walked out and put her hand on my shoulder.

“Good morning, Louis. Or should I’d say good afternoon… Last night took its toll.” She chuckled.

I lit up another cigarette and told her, “I was just thinking about what small fortune I’d pay to jump back into last night.”

“There were some highlights,” she cooed back.

Nausea began to take hold. Clutching the book, I sprinted to the edge of the porch and vomited down onto the sidewalk.

“Fuck!” Shannon exclaimed. “Are you alright?”

“Get me a drink, Shannon.”

“Lou!”

“Shannon! Get. Me. A. Fucking. Drink.” Her eyes turned grey.

“What are you holding, Louis?”

“Okay, I’ll get the drink myself.” I shot back.

I wiped my mouth and brushed past her back through the sliding doors. I charged down the stairs, without a thought about my knees or my hips and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and took a swig. I closed my eyes and let my heartbeat settle. When I opened them, Shannon was in front of me.

“Talk to me, Lou… What is going on?”

“It is my fault…” I muttered, after taking another sip from the bottle.

“What’s your fault?”

“IT IS MY FUCKING FAULT!” I screamed, throwing the book against the wall.

I melted into a puddle on the floor. Shannon latched on, tucking her head neatly into the space between my head and my shoulder. She ran her hand along my back, trickling over each bone in my spine. I took another pull of the drink. The tears that were starting to well up retreated back into the recesses of my mind.

“I am okay.” I told her.

“Are you?”

A siren buzzed by outside and dogs started barking. I took another sip of whiskey and the years unfolded behind my eyes. How many of those scribbles were my fault? I was so unwilling to change....and the stress that put on her. Heather.

I took another deep pull from the bottle and it got completely quiet. I leaned back, rested my head on the floor and shut my eyes.