Insobriety
An Adventures of Tintin short story.
It happened on a Wednesday night. Tintin had dreaded it's coming, and he knew he could do absolutely nothing to prevent it. Oh, he did try, of course, however subtle the hints were. Who wouldn't want to save their best friend from such a sad death? He emptied all the vodka into the toilet, buried the rum, poured bottle after bottle of Loch Lommond into the flower bed under the kitchen window, and even flat out told the captain that no good would come of his drinking, but all his attempts had been in vain.
Tintin thought that the captain knew better, that he had acknowledged his limits. Unfortunately, Tintin had made the wrong assumption.
He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped over the well-worn threshold of Marlinspike Hall. Snowy didn't greet him at the door. Not a light was on in the house, and there was not a whisper to be heard. Tintin's keys jingled musically as he pocketed them, breaking the foreboding silence before him. Vaguely, he wondered where Nestor was; it was only eight thirty, and the butler usually lurked near the entryway. Tintin decided that he must have turned in early, and the boy grinned. Nestor deserved a little peace for putting up with Captain Haddock all day.
"Snowy?" He swallowed nervously. "Where are you boy?"
Tintin tentatively stepped further into the cavernous mansion and flinched as the thick wooden door slammed behind him with a final, resolving clang. He glanced about, maybe expecting villains to pop up out of the shadows with chloroform and blunt, heavy objects, but no one betrayed their presence and Tintin continued into the house, wary of the massive pieces of furniture that lined the walls and the closed doors that could be harboring crooks.
Tintin noticed a flickering light emanating from the parlor, and so, stealthily and soundlessly, he headed into the room. He was unprepared for the sight that met him.
"Oh, my, God," Tintin rasped, his hand covering his gaping mouth in horror. "My God! Captain!" He staggered into the dimly lit parlor. By the glimmer of the dying fire, he discovered he was about to live one of his many nightmares.
Captain Archibald Haddock was unconscious, sprawled unceremoniously on the golden brown Persian rug, surrounded by various bottles and jugs, all empty of the alcoholic beverage that was previously in them. Snowy lay near his head, whimpering and whining; he knew something was wrong. A large, watery pool of amber-tinted vomit sat, stagnant, not five feet from one of the large windows.
Insobriety had beaten the captain.
Though old enough to live on his own, Tintin couldn't help feeling small, subordinate, and helpless at the present situation. He knelt on the carpet and stared, almost incomprehensively. Subconsciously he felt for a pulse, and was relieved, but not much, when he found the frantic, irregular beat. Snowy licked solemnly at Tintin's shaking hands, looking for reassurance.
"Captain. You are okay, right?" He paused; listening with growing terror at the rapid, shallow breathing while he waited for an answer he knew in his heart wouldn't come. "I-I think I'm going to c-call an ambulance. Okay?" He crawled, trusting not his trembling knees, and reached for the landline telephone on the end table. Snowy began to howl disdainfully, and the ghastly sound echoed throughout the quiet house.
With numb fingers Tintin dialed the emergency number and spoke as steadily as he could to the operator and the nurse on the line before the phone slipped out of his hand. Not bothering to return it to its proper position, Tintin dragged himself to his unresponsive friend.
"Shh, Snowy! Hush!" he begged of his dog. "Captain?" The journalist shook the older man sharply, but gently. "Captain, please wake up? C'mon, it's me, Tintin. Please?"
Tintin glared at the bottles of wine, beer and other various, foul, and hateful drinks, mentally cursing them all for the paleness and stillness of Captain Haddock.
The boy lovingly traced a finger along the calloused and scarred hand of his father figure, as a single tear splashed onto the deathly white skin. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. Tears spilled out of his eyes and onto his cheeks. Tintin threw himself down onto Haddock's chest and sobbed wildly. Yowling for all heaven to hear, Snowy joined in. After what seemed like an eternity, starchy-white clad paramedics wrenched him away and carried him out of Marlinspike Hall.
"No, no, NO!" He shrieked, over and over again, clawing at blurry faces and arms, trying with all his remaining strength to return to the side of his best friend. Rough hands seized him and held him still while a sickly, sweet smelling cotton ball was pressed to his nose. His already clouded vision darkened, and he succumbed to blissful nothingness.
Turns out he was right about the chloroform-wielding villains in his home after all.
I'm working on a part two to this if anyone is interested. Geez, it's late; I hope there aren't many mistakes...(hint hint: let me know if you find any!) I live for constructive critisism! Also, if you liked this, why don't you take a gander at my long story I'm working on, called Tintin and the Epidemic of Death. I'd like to know what you think!
I do not own Tintin. Not one bit. Yup. Night, folks.