The Skids, Challenge #146 (Mick, ficlet) -- PG-13
Posted: Thu Feb 07, 2013 9:05 am
So, this is a little longer than the challenge prompt, #146 “Love Endures,” indicated, but hey, I’m going to put it out here anyway. No infringement of anything intended. Honest.
The Skids
Struggling back to consciousness, one arm flung over his eyes to keep the objectionable light of day out of his eyes, Mick groaned. Some days he hated the sunlight. Almost worse than the bright light streaming through the tattered curtains, though, was the smell. Stale beer, overflowing ashtrays, and the undertones of old sweat and clothes worn too many days.
And man, Stevie’s couch, had seen better days. There was a lump digging into his kidneys, and his feet were numb from being propped up to hang over the arm.
He was thinking that he’d left an inch or so in the bottom of the bottle of cheap bourbon he’d been drinking last night. It might be enough to get the taste of cigarettes and despair out of his mouth, and he ought to be able to find it if he swept his free hand down the floor by the couch. No luck, though. He only encountered a raft of empty beer bottles—dead soldiers, his father had called them, although that particular joke had lost a lot of its humor—and he winced at the sharp, glassy sound they made falling against each other. He finally found the bourbon bottle. Empty, from the heft of it. He didn’t hear any sloshing inside, either, and decided it wasn’t worth opening his eyes to make sure.
Ah well, he guessed he’d have to do without his hair of the dog. That was okay. It’d only make him feel better, and with what was floating around in his head, he didn’t want to feel good. He wanted to feel bad. Or at least to feel nothing.
He wanted Lilah.
But Lilah was not his. Could never be his again.
He’d never meant for it to happen. Never meant to betray Ray. His best friend, for God’s sake. Yeah, he’d thought Ray was dead. Everyone had. So what? Some ways, he thought that only made it worse.
He groaned. He was going to have to get up, he needed to piss like a racehorse. Then groaned again. That had been one of Ray’s expressions. He could still remember Ray first trotting that one out when they were in grade school, and the way they’d laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks.
He could feel a few tears in his eyes now, and he cursed himself again for being a pitiful excuse for a man.
He missed Lilah, the soft feel of her lush body against his, with a physical pain. But as bad as it was, it was almost nothing compared to the pain that washed over him when he thought about never seeing his friend, his best, truest friend ever again.
Six months. Six months of living on couches, trying not to think. Trying not to dwell on what he’d done. Which of course meant that he thought of nothing else.
Really, he’d been sure that by now, the pain would have faded, the guilt subsided. Apparently not. Obviously he needed to drink a lot more. Somewhere out there, there had to be something that would ease this knot in his gut. Maybe oblivion. Maybe, just maybe, a road out of this crap pit his life had turned into.
Hell, he hadn’t even seen his mother in two months. He didn’t like to risk going back to the old neighborhood. Might see Lilah. Or worse, Ray.
Yeah, this lumpy couch in this smelly dump was about what he deserved.
If he could only let go of it. Let the love he’d felt for Lilah, the deep friendship he’d always felt for Ray, just fall away. They could have their happily ever after, although he was selfish enough to wonder if either of them ever thought of him. If Lilah ever missed his touch, if Ray ever wondered why his best friend had dropped off the map.
He wished he’d never met either of them, he wished he’d been smart enough to keep his damn hands off her, even if he thought he was consoling a widow. Thought he was actually doing the right thing by Ray, taking care of his wife. He laughed, bitterly, irony overcoming him.
He let the empty liquor bottle slide out of his hand. Somewhere in the other room, Stevie was snoring—not an attractive sound, not at all. He wasn’t sure where he’d met the guy, wasn’t sure he even liked him very much. They’d played a few gigs together, and last night in a boozy haze, Stevie had said, musicians had to stick together. Mick could stay with him, long as he needed. Turned out, the place was a rat hole, not that he’d cared at the time. But hey, the couch was rent free; who was he to complain?
Maybe he could sleep some more, get past the worst of this hangover. Oh, yeah, sleep—and dream about Lilah, and Ray. He sat up, kicking beer bottles out of his way, scrubbing his hands over his face, grimacing at the rough feel of the stubble. Had he shaved yesterday? The day before? He couldn’t remember.
Someday, someday, he hoped this pain would go away. But he had a sick feeling, that it was going to be a long, long time. Because he was learning, that whether you wanted it or not, whether it was good or bad, love endured.
He was really going to have to find another drink.
The Skids
Struggling back to consciousness, one arm flung over his eyes to keep the objectionable light of day out of his eyes, Mick groaned. Some days he hated the sunlight. Almost worse than the bright light streaming through the tattered curtains, though, was the smell. Stale beer, overflowing ashtrays, and the undertones of old sweat and clothes worn too many days.
And man, Stevie’s couch, had seen better days. There was a lump digging into his kidneys, and his feet were numb from being propped up to hang over the arm.
He was thinking that he’d left an inch or so in the bottom of the bottle of cheap bourbon he’d been drinking last night. It might be enough to get the taste of cigarettes and despair out of his mouth, and he ought to be able to find it if he swept his free hand down the floor by the couch. No luck, though. He only encountered a raft of empty beer bottles—dead soldiers, his father had called them, although that particular joke had lost a lot of its humor—and he winced at the sharp, glassy sound they made falling against each other. He finally found the bourbon bottle. Empty, from the heft of it. He didn’t hear any sloshing inside, either, and decided it wasn’t worth opening his eyes to make sure.
Ah well, he guessed he’d have to do without his hair of the dog. That was okay. It’d only make him feel better, and with what was floating around in his head, he didn’t want to feel good. He wanted to feel bad. Or at least to feel nothing.
He wanted Lilah.
But Lilah was not his. Could never be his again.
He’d never meant for it to happen. Never meant to betray Ray. His best friend, for God’s sake. Yeah, he’d thought Ray was dead. Everyone had. So what? Some ways, he thought that only made it worse.
He groaned. He was going to have to get up, he needed to piss like a racehorse. Then groaned again. That had been one of Ray’s expressions. He could still remember Ray first trotting that one out when they were in grade school, and the way they’d laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks.
He could feel a few tears in his eyes now, and he cursed himself again for being a pitiful excuse for a man.
He missed Lilah, the soft feel of her lush body against his, with a physical pain. But as bad as it was, it was almost nothing compared to the pain that washed over him when he thought about never seeing his friend, his best, truest friend ever again.
Six months. Six months of living on couches, trying not to think. Trying not to dwell on what he’d done. Which of course meant that he thought of nothing else.
Really, he’d been sure that by now, the pain would have faded, the guilt subsided. Apparently not. Obviously he needed to drink a lot more. Somewhere out there, there had to be something that would ease this knot in his gut. Maybe oblivion. Maybe, just maybe, a road out of this crap pit his life had turned into.
Hell, he hadn’t even seen his mother in two months. He didn’t like to risk going back to the old neighborhood. Might see Lilah. Or worse, Ray.
Yeah, this lumpy couch in this smelly dump was about what he deserved.
If he could only let go of it. Let the love he’d felt for Lilah, the deep friendship he’d always felt for Ray, just fall away. They could have their happily ever after, although he was selfish enough to wonder if either of them ever thought of him. If Lilah ever missed his touch, if Ray ever wondered why his best friend had dropped off the map.
He wished he’d never met either of them, he wished he’d been smart enough to keep his damn hands off her, even if he thought he was consoling a widow. Thought he was actually doing the right thing by Ray, taking care of his wife. He laughed, bitterly, irony overcoming him.
He let the empty liquor bottle slide out of his hand. Somewhere in the other room, Stevie was snoring—not an attractive sound, not at all. He wasn’t sure where he’d met the guy, wasn’t sure he even liked him very much. They’d played a few gigs together, and last night in a boozy haze, Stevie had said, musicians had to stick together. Mick could stay with him, long as he needed. Turned out, the place was a rat hole, not that he’d cared at the time. But hey, the couch was rent free; who was he to complain?
Maybe he could sleep some more, get past the worst of this hangover. Oh, yeah, sleep—and dream about Lilah, and Ray. He sat up, kicking beer bottles out of his way, scrubbing his hands over his face, grimacing at the rough feel of the stubble. Had he shaved yesterday? The day before? He couldn’t remember.
Someday, someday, he hoped this pain would go away. But he had a sick feeling, that it was going to be a long, long time. Because he was learning, that whether you wanted it or not, whether it was good or bad, love endured.
He was really going to have to find another drink.