Sorry it's been a few days. We've been living in hay hell up here, trying to bring in a year's worth of it in a week thanks to the widespread drought and fear of skyrocketing prices. Hoping to have more time to get back to the fun stuff next week. Be safe everyone. Send some rain up here please.
It was as though a tornado had swept through the small bedroom, moving everything in sight, slinging it against walls, creating a sea of glass shards and wooden shrapnel down below.
Two dressers were lying on their sides, the contents of the drawers spewed wildly across the room.
The bedsheets were draped over a small wooden desk in the corner, a pile of certificates and recognitions that previously adorned the walls piled on top of them.
A thick smell of alcohol and marijuana filled the four walls of the chaotic room, an empty bottle of cheap whiskey by the side of the bed the sad reminder of Yale's early morning drinking bout.
The poet himself laid sprawled out on the barren mattress, spread eagle, naked from the waist up.
Seeing him like that made the pit in Mike's stomach double in size and he swallowed hard as he approached the disturbing sight.
Much to his relief, he saw the poet breathe, his chest rising and sinking in a slow, even rhythm.
At least this wasn't going to lead to a DOA call.
With a quiet sigh, he maneuvered through all the broken glass, books and random pillows in his way as he approached the bed, his eyes scanning the unconscious poet carefully, seeing the thin layer of perspiration on his chest.
"Yale?", he tried, keeping his voice neutral.
Not surprised when he didn't receive a reply, the lieutenant stepped closer until his knees touched the side of the mattress.
From there, the smell of booze and grass got worse, the fumes so thick he could taste them on his tongue. Shaking his head in disapproval, he cleared his throat, then reached forward to gently shake the poet's shoulder.
"Yale. Can you hear me? It's Lieutenant Stone. Mike Stone."
The skin beneath his touch felt cold, not surprising considering that the heat was turned way down in the dated apartment, its tenants saving energy cost even though the temperatures outside hadn't been pleasant in weeks.
A faint grunt was his sole response for several tense seconds and Mike was about to call in Steve, telling the young inspector to get a hold of dispatch and bring in an ambulance when he felt the poet move below his touch.
"That's it. Time to wake back up, my friend."
This time he heard some incohesive mumbling coming from the other man, before his glassy eyes slowly opened. The pupils beneath them were large and unfocused as Yale licked his dry lips, then brough up a hand to run over his face.
"Who is it to raise me from the dead? Pull me from the comforts of eternal damnation?"
"Mike Stone.", the lieutenant replied cheekily, feeling a wave of relief wash over him considering the dire phone call they'd received earlier, "Your daughter Janaea…you see, she's a bit worried about you."
"The sole rose in a garden of thorns…and wilt. The treasure of my life, the apple of my eye…and yet, I mustn't be around her. My failures are too powerful, too…contagious."
"I don't think anybody here feels that way, Yale, especially her. You're a good man and your daughter and friends worry about you. You see, Janaea called us because she cares so much about you. So we stopped by just to make sure you're ok."
With a theatric wave of the hand, Yale rolled over on his side and away from Mike, the mattress down below stained with sweat and other bodily fluids he didn't want to think about at the moment.
"Ok? What does a two-letter word do to describe the misery of a failed life, the missed chances? A track record that only goes backward, a…a death spiral that sucks in everyone in its wake? Am I ok? Who is ok? Who can summarize their very existence in limited letters unless…unless there is nothing to summarize. An existence so plain that it amounts to no more than a speck of dust."
"Don't you think you are being a little hard on yourself, Yale?", Mike asked, only to see the other man turn on his back again, his bleak eyes filled with rage.
"Hard on myself? Hard on myself? I have but seen everything there is to see, and devoted my life to the perfection of expression, and when my body grows tired, when I am weak with dread and tedium, I lay down to offer my body to the ages. Then…you…you come in here and dare to tell me about hardship?!"
"You and I have a whole lot more to talk about than hardship, Yale. Like what you did last night.", Mike began, growing weary of the elaborate debate.
Hoping to get the matter settled once and for all, he leaned down again to reach for the poet's arm to pull him out of bed, when the other man let out an angry shriek, his hands aiming for Mike's throat.