Author's Notes: I've an unending fascination with Mr. Charlie Dalton of The Dead Poets Society, and I came across this little drabble that I wrote months ago. It isn't the best piece I've ever written, but it has inspired me to write more. This is going to be a collection of drabbles relating to Charlie Dalton. Some may be short, others might actually be quite lengthy, but no matter what they always will pertain to our precious Nuwanda.
Rating: Even though this first chapter is relatively safe, it's rated M for later chapters.
Sometimes he preferred the cold of night, the vast sky a whispered comfort, black and stars. But there were no stars tonight; there was nothing in his heart tonight. But then, when was there ever? When was there ever a time to say anything, to voice thoughts, to pray, to exchange philosophies on love and life with the rain? When could he stop and smell the roses? When would he see himself for what he truly was, an artist, an unfortunate of the underworld who did not belong in this lifetime?
He sat on the windowsill, cradling the bottle of wine in his lap, a cigarette hanging from his mouth like an unfinished sentence. Outside the snow fell in curled, happy flakes; he kept the window open so he could feel them. The alcohol was numbing, he couldn't feel much. He laughed when the snow would fly into his room and sprinkle him with a shock of cold. His mind was fuzzy, tickled, deceiving him into artificial warmth and happiness.
He took the cigarette from his lips and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth, lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long, steady sip. The thick liquid sloshed down his throat, heavy, bittersweet, taking off the edge bit by bit. It was like fire in his mouth, and he liked it. On nights like this, he liked the taste of glass.
Red wine was always warmer than white wine, perfect for Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve? Is that what tonight was? Oh, of course. How could he forget? How could he muffle the sounds from downstairs, happy voices, laughter, the tinkling of crystal as Bing Crosby crooned on about tidings of comfort and joy? It wasn't that simple. Even French wine couldn't make him forget where he was.
Home. Hell on earth.
Suddenly the cigarette seemed to disagree with him, and he tossed it out of the window, watching fall like the snow, only uglier, a vice against virtue. Instead he returned to the bottle, took another swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He could picture his parents, their fake, plastered smiles, exchanging thoughts on Michaelangelo.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
He could never care less about T.S. Elliot's J. Alfred Prufrock.
Dinner would be served soon, they'd be looking for him. The kids would want to open their Christmas presents.
Charlie Dalton never believed in Santa Claus.
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