A Drop of Life

Glazed memories

Christ you think. The scent of drunken minds and sober hearts, mixed in with a bit of desperation, sadness and honestly.  

That’s what they smell like. They stagger into the room, ungraceful and uncoordinated and while there’s no tears running down their face there is a devastation in them that speaks more than any drop of water ever could.

“Heeeey.” They slur, flopping down on the bed beside you, and this is so different from what they are in the daylight, where they are strong and confident and determined, they were not a leader, or a hero, or inspiring but they were a constant. No matter what they were there and it’s…not disappointing, because you could never be disappointed with them, but it’s…bewildering, to say the least.

“Did you know…did you know?” They hiccupped, and still there were no tears but it sounded like they were so close. They made wild hand gestures, trying to pass on the message and their flailing hands knocked over the alarm clock, and you watched listlessly as it fell to the floor and cracked, bright red lights showing the numbers 03:34. You didn’t try to pick it up, and you didn’t move from your spot, against the headboard with the sheets bunched at your waist. You wouldn’t be getting any sleep for the rest of the night.

“Did you know?” They ask brokenly. Suddenly, you’re trapped, arms surrounding you and holding you tight. “Did you know?” They mutter, and for a half hour this is the only thing you hear; only thing you feel. Thin, and damaged hands in the moonlight, that will bandage themselves in the sunlight, the smell of too much whiskey with an undertone of citrus (the shampoo they used, and they were OCD about this as much as they tried to deny, any other scent just seemed to bother them), with a broken mutter of ‘Did you knows?’ the only thing you could hear. And still, you sat unmoving, too tired of trying to pick up damaged and shattered pieces, it was all you could do now.

“You should’ve told me.” The repetitive muttering stilled, and you startled, surprised to hear the break in pattern.

“Told you what?” You ask, though you already know the answer. It was a futile attempt at playing innocent, because as much as you hate this, hated these late night meetings that only the walls of this room witnessed, hated what they’ve become, you know this is your fault.

“You should’ve told me.” They say, apparently not hearing you or ignoring you altogether (and you don’t want to admit that the latter is more likely). You dread when the sun is out, when time changes from AM to PM, because that is so much worse than whatever this is. Because this is them being honest, messy and indirect and puzzling, but honest. Even with the smell of drunken minds and sober hearts, mixed in with a bit of desperation and sadness and honesty, this is so much better than what they are in the sunlight, not desperate, not sad, not honest, and it’s cruel to think they should be but that’s who they are.

They are not a smiling face with cheerful eyes and no issues, they are not confidants with strong shoulders, they don’t smell like oranges and cheer, they don’t look like warm summer nights, they don’t sound, they don’t hear and they –they are not…happy. They are not, they are sad and lonely and they are still mourning, they are lost and feel neglected and they smell of whiskey with a hint of citrus and they look like they have one foot inside the coffin and they sound like they are a young child looking for guidance.

It is…ugly, this truth. But this is the truth and honestly, you’d rather visit this ugly, clinging version than the strong and fake version. It might be heartless but this is what you prefer.

There is a sudden weight against your shoulder and you realize that they have fallen asleep. A glance at the broken clock shows you that four hours have passed and suddenly, you realize the light peeking through the curtains is not the moon, nor is the warmth you feel the heater or the body cocooning you. Without realizing it, hours have passed and in a few more, AM will become PM and the body near you will stir and awake, with a hangover and no memories of the previous night and drained of who they truly are.

 You sigh, and close your eyes in torture. There is a burning within them, and you feel the a pathway of cold slide down your cheek and you ignore it, you ignore the arms around you, squeezing almost painfully, you ignore the sun-warmed room, you ignore the blinking red lights of the broken clock, you ignore the smell of alcohol and misery and mourning, you just…ignore it all.