Woosh. Crash. Shimmer.
Woosh. Crash. Shimmer.
The bottle was hefty in his sloppy hand. Arching, release, smooth and practiced.
Woosh. Crash. The shimmer of small shards sprinkling the ground with an almost melodic, music box sound. The fragments laid mingled around their many still intact compatriots, which lay sprawled across the stone floor in a chaotic labyrinth. The man has long gone past the point of being able to stand, so he slumps amidst the wreckage. It's almost pitch black save for a few flames that cling to the ground. They are the last remaining survivors of what had once been a dozen lit candles. The man knew he needed to crawl his way out of the little hovel; to the part of the cavern he had reserved for strictly living. His stomach had begun to churn and even in his current state he still had the better judgment to avoid mixing vomit and broken glass. It was not a mistake to be born twice.
The first few weeks after everything had come crashing down he had stormed into his little 'haven' with wild abandon. No place was off limits to his wanton violence and indulgent wallowing. From safety bunker to hell hole; the place descended into such a state of filth and riotous disrepair that not even maggots dared to squirm their way from the rot of food long forgotten. The litter of smashed boxes and chairs that lined the wall were some of the last remaining testaments of this savage period.
The only thing that forced the man to wrest any form of control over his existence was the tingling tendril tucked into his chest that whispered of the dream that followed the severance of one's mortal coil. For in the sleep of death what dreams may come? It was this thought that now led him to this moment in this particular part of the bunker. Just a crook in the darkest corner of the stone vault, but space enough to put all the rage and heartbreak that beats down on the hopeless and forlorn.
Allowing gravity to do the work the man collapses on his front. His heavy pants echo hollowly across the glistening stone walls as his arms flay and claw; pulling his bulk across the ground and away from the sparkling wasteland. Bottles ring and scrape as they are viciously shoved to the side. Glass crunches under hand. The piecing is a bright spot in his head: clarity in the fog of his stupor. Fresh red handprints join the faded ones upon the floor.
It's cold in the main cavern. The man knows he should light a fire, try to sleep, but that shifty hazing world would be littered with reminders. It could be the sound of her voice or something that was that perfect shade of brown: the brown of her eyes. He shouldn't, but he is shivering and drunk; the last tendrils of judgement and self-control shattered and sparkling on the floor of his hovel. A few moments of stillness are allowed before the man slowly brings himself to his feet. Standing upright is a task too big for the moment, so he sets out for his matches stooped and arms spread. His legs are sea legs caught on dry land. He wibbles and wabbles with drink loosened joints. The difficulty of the task sparking anger; anger at the matches, anger at the drink, anger at her, anger at her fair lover. It broods with every wobbling step until the cavern his ringing with ragged, jagged noises that he doesn't realize are coming from his mouth.
He can't do it anymore. Mentally grabbing the reins of his will, he steers his jangling husk to bed. Wiggling into the mound of blankets he curls into himself pressing the good half of his face into the softness of a pillow. Silence. The moment freezes in the stillness. The pillow grows moist as he realizes that sleep will not come again this night. He can't make himself move. He can't fix this. He doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to feel, or remember. Do. Cry. Kill himself. Hate. Mourn. Breath. None of this. Nothing could fix this. Nothing could bring him happiness.
The anger ripples through him again. It was never far. It had been and was still his life blood. What else could sustain one robbed unjustly of all of humanities sparkle and promise?
He wanted to hurt someone. HE wanted to make them feel that hurt. Not just anyone though, everyone. A smile cracked the man's half face, casting his already frightful visage in a fiendish light. After selfishly putting him here, they should sacrifice a few precious moments of their lives to experience his hell. It should be done in fire. Yes, a fiery hell. Wait no, no. There had already been a fire. Water then?
In that moment his mind narrowed to that single possibility. How would that even work? Plenty of water down below, but to get it above? And to what end? His thought's worked fast and cyclical.
A shiver of please at the image of bodies floating and wafting in the depths of a watery grave. First with fire, then with water, 40 days and 40 nights, and no rainbow in sight.
Kidnapped
Forced below
A watery grave
With your cronies in tow
A snort. The only response his tired body could manage before sleep, mercifully, swept him away from his own mechanisism.
