Tristan stood rooted in a mist of memories capering past him. Flickers of laughter here and there, tears and fights, conversation all jumbled together in the cacophony of a life lived in chaos and self destruction; all of it now rooted to the shell sprawled on the sticky stone floor.
Flame from the oil lamps lent a warmth to the pallor of waxy skin, softening the angles of cheek and chin. Shadows danced over what could have been handsome, softening the clear evidence of disregard to dress and physique.
Ma had constantly nagged him with her opinion about his love for whiskey. She had known it wouldn’t take him anywhere worth being. Youth and arrogance had thought they knew better than she.
Tristan examined himself. Held out a hand, a foot; seeing the tiniest static crackle and a hint of transparency in what otherwise would have been taken for solid flesh. He doubted that even ma’s very active imagination would have stretched this far.
Bottles littered the floor. He, apparently, had surpassed his limits. Trouble would be a societal deadbeat. Past that, he was certainly dead. The still lump of his body amidst the bottles spoke to that in no uncertain terms. He shook his head, bidding those memories to disappear and considered his predicament.
He was a pathetic sight, sprawled out here. What a sop. Though sense was dulled, he could smell the fumes of his weakness wafting on the gentle breeze wandering in through the windows.
The soft sound of the tide coming in drew his attention from his prostrate form and he scowled out over the bay for a moment, watching the gentle bobbing of the waves, an idea beginning to take shape.
Tentatively, he reached out and poked himself with a careful finger. He trembled slightly and pushed harder with one foot, half expecting it to fall right through.
Satisfied that he was still solid enough, he began to move the bottles away from his body. He was going to need a clear path. A glance out the windows showed the tide at its peak. Now was going to be his only chance. He grabbed his wrists and pulled, grunting at his own weight.
“Ugh, ” was his disgusted exclamation. Bottles rolled as he moved, clinking and pittering on the wood floor. His body pulled with a wet hiss, the buttons on his coat pit-pitting occasionally on the uneven flooring, leaving a fresh trail of tiny gouges to mark his passing.
With each labored step, Tristan became more disgusted with himself. All of his poor choices and look where it had left him, dragging his own body out of a pub.
Coming to the short flight of stairs, he started down with a thumpthump and sickening crack-pop from his lolling head.
Gross, thump thump crack-POP.
Ugh, damn it. Thump thump, crackpop.
Three down, two to go. He was just hoping his head wouldn’t fall off when, with a crackle, his hand lost all solidity. His wrist fell through his now useless hand, letting his head fell to the stair bellow with a resounding crack. Oh Hell!
Tristan seized a handful of damp, dark hair and shook hard. Reassured that his head was still well attached, he resumed his labored tugging. Four stairs down, one more. He dragged himself across the dining floor and pushed the doors open. A gust of wind caught his flaccid hair and tugged at the clothes on his body, the shadow of a summons to move on.
Out over the patio he dragged himself, to the beach stairs. He started down. Almost there, he thought. Another crackle and both hands became momentarily incorporeal. He threw them up in frustration, watching his body hit the steps and slide a few feet into a grotesque half cannon-ball: legs tucked halfheartedly up to his chest, head pinned in the open space between steps.
His mouth had opened, his tongue protruding like some giant, purple slug. Gingerly, Tristan pushed it back inside his mouth and heaved himself out of his unfortunate position.
A few more minutes brought him to the waterline. With an almighty push, he sent his body floating out with the now receding tide. Drowned in alcohol, it was only appropriate that he have a burial at sea. Or as close as he could get to it, at any rate.
Stars blinked overhead and he saluted to himself, a weak imitation for a weak man. The memories returned, settling on his shoulders in mephistopholic fashion, fluttering into view every now and again. He let them whisper and cavort for a few moments before turning his back on the bay and heading back toward the stairs and the mess that awaited him. The light flooding through the windows above Tristan beckoned him away from the soft pink glow growing in the horizon. He stood straight and ascended the steps; there wasn’t anything for him out here.
With a deep sigh, he clicked the doors shut and bid goodbye to that vague offering. His apron waited on a hook by the door, ready, as always, for a long day ahead.
Becoming Vertical 