Sober
By: Caity
It was a distant memory.
So far away, so buried in the recesses of his mind that it was almost a past life. Like he was someone else, that lived at some different time. A time when life had been such a mysterious, exciting experience. When every little turn and bump churned up some epiphany that he knew he would remember for the rest of his life.
The times he only dimly remembered.
He wished he didn't.
It seemed almost a fool's journey now, to think even the faintest thought about her. It only brought inevitable heart ache, and depression, and some forseen onslaught of indulgence in addictions. All formed due to memories, silhouettes, vague recollections. And a face that's image was so completely burned into his brain that no amount of any vice would distort the etch.
Her face.
A girl, from so long ago. At least, it felt like a long time. In his mind, she always seemed so close to the touch, just a fingertip's breath away. In reality, he knew that she was as far from reach as she could get.
She was once mine.
And she remains in my mind, in some indelible ink that I can't get to fade.
But to understand that, you'd have to understand who she was. Who we were, in some bygone era, locked away in the crevice of a timeline that weaves its way through my past and into the present. It both haunts me and comforts me, a disease and a cure. The one part of me I hope remains, yet the only part I ever wished was truly gone.
And- it pains me to think this- but sometimes, I wonder.
Did I even really know her at all?
-----
Five Years Earlier
It burned.
Ross felt the whiskey slide down his throat, scorching and igniting all his senses. It was a welcome pain to the numbness he'd been experiencing as of late. He couldn't remember the last time he truly lost himself in liquor, to get in so deep that the fire became comforting and whatever bothered you in the first place was safely hidden underneath it. He wasn't planning on reaching that level tonight, but just the thought was a bit satisfying.
He wordlessly tapped the edge of the empty glass on the table, and the bartender came to refill it.
"Something on your mind, kid?", asked the fifty-something waiter as he planted a new drink on the counter.
"Not really. We'll see after I finish this one."
The bartender laughed a bit and shook his head before retreating to the other patrons of the bar, leaving just Ross and the whiskey. He mulled things over in his mind as he took the glass and swirled the amber-colored liquid until ripples undulated the surface. He couldn't even have begun to describe what was really going through his head. The same thoughts, regrets, and musings that did every night, leaving one bitter footprint after another in the etchings of his thoughts.
It had been two years since the divorce, already, and he still couldn't stretch his mind around it. They had a life, a child . . . all gone to shit. He was lucky if he saw his son once a month, anymore. Carol always claimed they were just too busy, but he knew better. She stopped caring. Ben had two parental figures now; why ruin the picture by throwing in a third wheel?
Before he knew it, his glass was nearly empty before him. His stomach was aflame with the ingested alcohol, and he hoped it would soon drown out everything else without the assistance of a third.
He thought of the recently passed Christmas, and how he hadn't even gotten the chance to hand-deliver gifts to his own child.
The alcohol lost the war. Defeated, he rested his elbows against the counter and hung his head, closing his eyes to the hustle of happy-hour. Just relax, he told himself. Try to forget. But he knew better.
"Do you know what I hate about life?"
He opened his eyes to the polished mahagony countertop, quite baffled as to what he'd just heard. A velvety-smooth female voice . . . but who was talking to him? His eyes darted out to the side, where he caught a glimpse of something other than a vacant barstool. A pair of taut legs, clad in nude pantyhose, rising up to meet beneath a black skirt.
His head snapped up.
"Huh?"
"I said, do you know what I hate about life?"
He wasn't quite sure how to reply, although he knew now that she must have been talking to him. Still, he was caught too off-guard to form a coherent sentence in his mouth.
"Rach! What can I get for you?", asked the bartender, who'd immediately gravitated towards them at the sound of her voice. "The usual dirty martini?"
"Not tonight, Marty. I need something stronger, and I'm in a hurry."
"Gotcha."
Ross took this moment when her eyes were off him to let his own gaze rake over her. The first thing he noticed was, though the lighting was scarce in the room, the little bits of it caught her golden hair and reflected. It hung creaseless over her shoulders, silky and smooth. Her mouth sat in a small pout as she waited for her drink, her jaw resting against her fist, but he couldn't catch her eyes from the side. He did, however, see the fabric of her red cardigan cling tightly to her body, exposing just a peek at what was underneath.
Marty turned back to her, setting down a shot of some unknown clear liquid in front of her and winking before getting back to the masses. She picked it up, crossed her legs- just as silky and smooth as her hair, he noted- and swirled on the stool to face him again.
"So, do you want to know or not?"
Bright, gleaming cerulean irises. They were all he could see.
"Sure," he answered, not even aware that he was speaking.
She lifted the tiny glass to her lips, throwing back her head and downing it all in one gulp. She slammed the empty glass back on the counter, making a face as the shot made its way down her throat. She immediately took a breath when it subsided, and shook her head a bit before looking back at him.
"When it doesn't go the way you always planned."
"Excuse me?", he asked, not quite remembering what she had been talking about in the first place. He finally tore away from her eyes, and looked at her fully. She was focusing on something to the side of him now, or perhaps just staring at thin air+.
"That's what I hate about life."
"Oh," he said softly, noticing a subtle glint of regret and depression in the woman's eyes. "I hate that, too."
"Doesn't everybody," she sardonically replied. She seemed to toss something over in her mind before settling on an outcome. "Well, I think that did the trick."
She left some money on the counter before sliding off the stool. With one half-hearted smile in his direction, she turned and made a beeline for the exit, leaving Ross mystified in her wake.
Had it been an illusion? A mind-trick? He stared after her, his eyes lingering at the door after she pushed her way through them. His mind couldn't process what had just happened, why this random women would choose to share that with him.
"She's real, bud," Marty said, making his rounds. Ross looked up, and saw a twinkle in the man's eye. "Hard to believe, but its true."
"Good," Ross replied. He tossed a few dollars in the bartender's direction, nodding a goodbye before setting off himself.
While he walked down the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, he feeled an odd sort of consolation. Sure, he felt like complete and utter shit tonight, but . . .
Maybe he wasn't alone in the world.
Honestly, I'm not 100 sure where this is going. I randomly wrote chunks of it and started really liking what I had, so I put it together and formed this. Only one more chapter is done as of right now. Rating may possibly be changed to M for upcoming chapters. And they're coming up short, which is a major pet peeve of mine, but oh well. Reviews are majorly appreciated, cause this story is gonna be a bit experimental for me.
Lyrics in the summary from "Norwegian Wood" by The Beatles