Reservoir Requiem

The slatish waters of Butterley Reservoir gave back no sun as yet, still rising as it is beyond the hump of woodland made up of 525 oak trees. Soon will; as the lifting wisps of mist are hauled up into the icy skies, adjacent to the fading transparent grainy crescent moon hanging redundant under a lucid mash potato cloud, the full white disc shall be seen with views across the moors to Marsden. His clothes were wet and it appeared, at first sight, that his jacket was missing, then on further investigation, it became clear that it wasn't missing but it was lost to him now.

He squeezed his eyes and focused to see the blue part of his coat floating in the distance on the murky body of water. The slight nip of wind didn't feel too bad to phase him. It's not like he had taken the 10 or even the 8-mile trek option from what he could remember 4 was enough. The key point of interest was; how long had he been here on the gravel? Had he been in the water?; why?. He turned to ask the others but nobody else was there, and now for the first time in three months, he realised, he was completely alone out in the elements.

Shivering, he started to collect his belongings from one of the new footpaths nearby wondering how they got there, hoping this would give him enough time to gather his thoughts. For a 60-year-old, greying grandad of five, he still had all his faculties in order, more so than some millennials. In any case, his memory and ability to retain information was second-to-none, exquisite in fact. So he was surprised that, he had no recollection of anything that had occurred before or after sunset last night.

Now waking up at the arse end of dawn, he could not believe that he couldn't retrace those lost hours. He tried hard to distinguish if it was this nauseating mystery of the wet clothes and vanishing friends causing it, amidst the sudden slow drizzle of salt-rain slicing down and chopping into his cheekbones; combined with short sharp slashes of wind creating chilblains on his raw skin, making him shake, but his body was violently trembling from the inside out.

Making his way back to the house he stumbled and staggered like a man who had too much to drink the night before. It was great around here for a cheap pint out in the countryside away from the city, and to get change from a tenner was brilliant but useless to him as he quit drinking the night his wife died exactly 5 years ago. A sudden flashback. He was in the pub yesterday, the anniversary of her death but his friends drank orange with him all evening. Then what? Why couldn't he think, he was good at thinking since he stopped the drink. At the time he decided to give up, he rated his thinking as a bit sketchy, at the time, he thought he'd probably miss the drink more than he'd miss his wife.

At that moment he had sat with her dead body moments after she passed, he knew then that he would never touch a drop of drink again - and he hadn't, or had he? It felt like he'd drank. That all too familiar weakness of body and mind fog. Could that explain the shaking? Nothing of a hangover it's more of a withdrawal feeling, one without the regret or embarrassing recollection of jovial confidence occurring whilst feeling 'festive' from fucked up choices. None of that but he sensed that something was wrong. He didn't feel right, almost like he didn't exist. Not real.

He turned back and what he saw sent shivers into his teeth. He knew then that he was real when he felt the hot piss string pouring through his left leg, turning cold again within minutes. His clenched fist bore white knuckles and his mouth opened to scream. He did scream hard and loud. Deep and hoarse. He felt like his balls had been kicked had the wind punched out of him but the bass in his bellow suggested differently.

His wife stood before him, holding out her arms and beckoning him into the water. He was terrified. Too frightened to acknowledge the apparition of his beloved's ghostly form for what he saw in the water would haunt him more than a woman who died years ago. A wedding ring or not. Wife or Witch - he did not give a shit. "HELP ME!!", he boomed, lurching forward trying to cling to her life force for safety. To no avail he fell straight through, slid down through the smooth pebbles, landed face first in the shallow curb of the dark reservoir, under the surface he found his memory.

Frozen, engrossed in the revelations of his afterlife being played before his eyes because now he knew he had died. Five years ago. His body was floating in the lake wearing his jacket, his black pants, his black t-shirt, and his hair was grey, his beard grey. Opening his eyes against the force of the water he looked around him, his own face peering down at him from the surface. He's sinking, his wife is screaming for help. Her screams are a low dull thud and he knows she loves him.

Closing his eyes once more he understands the promise he made to stop drinking when she died. The last drink he had the night before their farewell ceremony he had come to buy cheap pints and walk peaks. Got a carryout from the local pub and had come down to Butterley Reservoir to have one for the road. He never made that road home. Suddenly something hard and heavy hit him in the jaw and dragged his arm down. It weighed heavy and seemed stuck to his arm. Jolting him to an alert state of epic confusion and this aberrrant epiphany. His rucksack full of beer cans and a couple of bottles was trapping him under the pull and he couldn't breathe, his arm ached, he had to let go.

When he woke up the police had arrived and his wife was crying. He felt real. His hangover was tinged with joy and adulation for this was the turning point. This was it for him and his relationship with drink. He loved Butterley Reservoir before this day. Been visiting since his teens. Had his first drink down on a raft by the edge. He'd been to the edge now and that was it for him. He promised never to come down here again. Never touch a drop of alcohol again and be a better husband.

As they were leaving in the back of the ambulance he turned to his wife and said, "I think I might miss Butterley Res. more than the drink!" she smiled and said nothing. The silence in the room was alluring, for a second more than he should he stared back at her, reached out and held her hand. "Thank you for loving me," closing his eyes he felt real, right, and reassured. It had all been a dream, an accident, a misdemeanor. Now everything could go back to how it was before only this time he'd be better, they would be better stronger. His future was for him and his wife and children, grandchildren. Soothed by his salvation his soul sang silently.

The paramedic had been writing on his clipboard looked at the distressed man with pity, the last guy on his list tonight and a lucky fucker at that, found passed out floating in the lake all by himself, the man had his eyes closed whispering "I'll change I promise, thank you, I love you so much" the paramedic replied: "who are you talking to mate?"

If you would like to hear the story narrated by me on my little podcast see the link above.