Meant To Be

Chapter two - Nashville Hospital, Tennessee

A doctor appeared wearing circular, silver glasses. She produced a winning smile, telling Zac how lucky he was to escape with cuts and bruises, that all he would need is a few stiches for the wound above his left eye. Zac asked for water. The doctor poured some, asking where he was from. The water was noisy as it streamed into the plastic cup. The doctor said she had relatives in Bell Buckle and that she liked its quaintness, but only for a holiday. She couldn't imagine living there. Much too quiet. Zac drank the water until there was nothing left.

"Are you ok for me to stitch you now?"

Zac laid back on the bed. The pillow cushioned around his head. He kept his eyes open as she leaned over him, threading above his brow. He could smell sweetness warmed up. Her doctor's coat hanging down around him. But he couldn't feel a thing as she entered and exited his skin with the fine silver needle. It looked cold.

Finished, the doctor asked Zac if he needed the hospital to call his wife, partner, a family member. All in that order. Zac said no as he sat up, swinging his legs off the white papered bed. She asked if perhaps, someone was already there to collect him while trying to figure out what to do if he had absolutely no one.

"My brother is waiting in the parking lot," said Zac.

Her face became cheery again, self-assured. She pushed her glasses up her nose. "Good, you are free to go then."

Zac reached for his hat, lifting it off the empty chair sitting next to the bed, and walked out of the curtained cubicle.

"Have a good day," said the doctor after him, as if tying their meeting up with a nice, tidy bow.

Zac waited at the bus stop just outside the hospital for a handful of minutes before the purple 56-seater pulled up alongside him. The driver declared six dollars when Zac told him where he was headed. He opened his wallet, took out a ten dollar note and waited for the change, the driver fumbling with coins.

"Here you go sir." The driver's hands were cold with long fingernails. Zac slipped the change into his pocket and sat in the first seat. There wasn't another being on board. The morning madness yet to begin.

Zac got off at Bell Buckle. The stall owners were setting up shop on the main street. He could hear someone whistling, their tone chirpy and high. Zac kept his head down as he went in the opposite direction, heading out of town. He gained a hop in his step, his right leg trying to move around the pain as he limped the last couple of mile home. The sun rising alongside him, spraying warm colours across the sky. Orange the most prolific.

The house was quiet when Zac arrived. The curtains drawn. But it didn't look odd. The day was still new to most. The horses began to neigh, hearing his footsteps on the sandy gravel. Their cries fell still as he walked by the barn, their big eyes hopeful that he would come back to them.

At the back door, Zac futtered with the lose floorboard trying to get the key out from underneath, breathing heavy hisses. He was as stiff as a wooden man, but after many attempts, he finally clasped it in his hand. His whole-body ached as he straightened.

The tick of the clock scratched the silence inside the house. Clean dishes were on the drying rack, cereal and spoons sitting on the table, laid out by Helen the night before, as if it would save a chunk of time in the morning. Zac blanked the life that belonged to yesterday, hauling his body through the hall and up the stairs. He went into the bathroom, slid the lock across and began to undress, groaning and twisting awkwardly to get out of his clothes. He pulled the cord dangling from the roof. The shower spat a few weak rainfalls before it flowed at a constant rate. Zac stepped inside the glass cube. The icy water hunted him like arrows as he leaned back against the tiles and slid down onto his knees.

*

Floral pyjamas were tossed on the pillow. A perfume bottle with no lid sat isolated from the cluster of beauty products on the dresser. Zac turned away from his reflection in the mirror. He pulled on a shirt that needed ironed and an old pair of work jeans that were ripped above the heel. Opening the top drawer of the bedside locker, he lifted a pair of socks and went back downstairs dressed a sick shade of white.

In the kitchen, he went to the corner cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. It's golden texture transparent under the rays of the early sun drifting in the window. Zac ripped the lid off but couldn't bring it to his lips quick enough. Holding the bottle high, the liquid passed through the tunnel of his mouth, running down his throat like silk. His face scrunched. He took a break to breathe and went again, repeating the process until there was nothing left inside but air.

Dumping the empty whiskey bottle in the bin, the clunk of glass destroyed the stillness. Zac's heels smacked the cream tiles as he moved across the floor. He lifted his hat off the hook and placed it on his head on his way out, leaving the back door wide open. The key dangling in the lock.

*

Men lined the bar on high stools. Their wide brimmed hats tucked underneath their feet dressed in cowboy boots. They sipped on beer bottles, rubbed their bearded cheeks and shared heavy laughs. Next to one another, in the cosy vibrancy of their local watering hole where everything was familiar, the world seemed kind. It poisoned Zac with hatred as he sat behind them in a shadowed corner that the light couldn't reach, watching the rest of the world carrying on as normal.

Slugging the last mouthful of Jamison, Zac got up wanting another. He pushed in at the bar between two men, their bodies coping sideways on the stools. They turned, rising. Their expressions sharp. Tongues wagging in their mouth, ready to fire a rip of ill-mannered words. But when they saw Zac, their hard faces slackened, gaining years, and they rested back on their stools, their heads lowered.

"Another whiskey." Zac slapped his empty glass on the worktop. The barman gave a disgruntled look as he finished a pint for another customer.

"Jesus Zac, I'm awful sorry to hear about Dena," said the man to his left. He had a thick white beard, his belly dressed in a red chequered shirt that hung over his belt.

"She was a lovely woman," the other one added. Zac gave them less consideration than the dirt on his boots. But the men didn't seem to mind as they tightened their lips into a sympathy line.

The barman laid another drink in front of Zac, but he was slow to let go of it, his eyes warning that it was likely to be his last. Zac gulped a mouthful. A dozen pitiful eyes watching as he tried to drink it all away like the lead in a country music video. His heartbreak threatening.

"Zac?"

The noise died, her voice a bullet - bullseye. Zac turned as if on the end of a string. Hers. He looked for her. Passing over a thin female body, pastel, topped with shaggy strawberry hair. The woman titled her head, her cheeks tightening. Zac fell into her green eyes by accident the second time. But she was no longer foreign territory.