Message in a Bottle
He slammed the glass bottle back down on the wooden table top, making the bitter liquid inside slosh up towards the neck. A line of empty bottles rattled with the force of the impact, clinking sharply against each other and wobbling precariously. The alcohol was a constant burn at the back of his throat, warming him from the inside.
The flat was dark. He hadn't turned on the lights, couldn't be bothered to, and the only illumination came from the window over the kitchen sink, where the softening light of the setting sun spilled across the table and the floor in glowing golden light. It highlighted the clear glass of the bottles and glanced through them, throwing bright spots of distorted light onto the table. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was dissecting the science of it: the angle of the sunlight and the thickness of the glass, the molecular structure and the imperfections, the exact intensity of the light that hit the table after passing through the glass bottles. On a more conscious level, he was aware of the exact number of bottles on the table, precisely how many ounces he'd consumed, the weight of each bottle and the energy it had required to craft them.
None of it mattered. At the very highest level of conscious thought, he was not concerned with the science of the light as it passed through the bottles, nor the trivial matter of how many bottles there were and how much of the liquid he'd consumed. The bottles were merely an impression of an endeavor and the knowledge of failing miserably in that endeavor.
And somewhere deep, far deeper than conscious thought or reasoning, he was aware of flat around him and her bedroom door just down the hallway. He was aware of the lingering scent of her skin, faint though it had become, and he was aware of the dust that covered her possessions, the way the door handle would stick and the hinges would groan. He knew these things the same way he knew, without wanting to, exactly how much time had passed.
So many bottles, and yet the silence was smothering. The drink spoke to him only in the language of fire and anger and violence. He felt consumed, and yet even as the flames burned through him and left him charred in their wake, they didn't ease the aching emptiness. He was still hollow, despite the rolling slosh of liquid in his stomach.
Desperate to find something more than emptiness waiting at the bottom of this bottle, he lifted it to his lips again and tossed his head back. The burning liquid slid down his throat easily, reigniting the fire in his belly. Even after the last drop was gone, he kept the bottle pressed to his lips. The seconds ticked by, and willing or not he was agonizingly aware of them. Many had passed before he slouched back until his head hit the wall behind him and let his hand drop to his side. The bottle slipped from his fingers to the floor.
So human in this body, so much more than he'd ever been, but not human enough. Not human enough to take solace in the panacea of alcohol. Not human enough to forget.
Human enough to love, but not to say it.
Defeat and bile were a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. With an effort he wrenched his eyes open and studied the line of empty bottles on the table before him. The liquid was silent and wordless, but the bottles spoke volumes.
Alone.
Gone.
Lost.
He was a man stranded, throwing bottles into and ocean and hoping they'd wash back up with more than emptiness and silence inside. Hoping they'd somehow turn up on a cold beach in a universe far from where he was. The whole of time and space at his disposal but nowhere to go. The place he wanted most to be was the one place he could never reach, and no matter how many stray bottles he gathered from the surf, there would be no message waiting inside.