Tom

He sat in the kitchen feeling despondent. It was late. He leaned over
to turn on the side light and a dull glow spewed out across the gloom.
He loosened his tie and thought, "What was it? Who was it? Why was she
so lost?" He wept.
#
Tom awoke on the floor, his mouth felt like the Sahara desert, he
ached for liquid refreshment, so he quenched it. Much better. He
stumbled to the cereal cupboard. "Why is my apartment such a mess?" he
wondered, as light poured in around the Venetian blinds. An
indescribable brown splatter caked on the wall confused him
momentarily. He chewed his cereal and took a long, deep drink. It used
to feel weird for him to eat and drink at the same time, but he had
gotten quite used to it. He finished what was left in the glass and
poured another, his thirst unquenchable this morning.
#
He called out her name, to no avail. What was it? Tom stood up with a
clinking sound of glass, walked towards the window to get some air,
finished his drink and set it down. The glass shards and the cold tile
floor felt particularly unpleasant today. Why couldn't he remember? He
looked at the wall, the stain seemed skewed. The sight of blood used to
really scare Tom, especially when it was his own. But he wasn't fazed
this time. A milky red liquid oozed from beneath his head, a primordial
mixture of cheerios, milk, and blood-four grain nutrition and anything
but sweet. The scar on his face had opened up again.
He knew what was missing from the mixture, though. Presently he spied
a half-full bottle in the veritable Jack Daniels graveyard that was his
kitchen. He drank deep, the anxiety melted away.
#
Tom awoke an indeterminable amount of time later. His mouth was
aflame. It was a different dryness than before, one of incinerating
pain. Where was she? Wasn't she due home an hour ago?
He stood up and glass shattered beneath his feet. He winced. Reaching
for another bottle of Jack, he slipped uneasily into the kitchen chair.
He supped greedily from the new bottle. He finally felt at ease.
Presently the phone rang, so he gulped down the final dregs of the
bottle, his memory clouding. He answered the phone; it was a recorded
message. Oh, the sweet release of the cold relaxing floor, so soothing
and wholesome. The floor didn't judge, the floor didn't tell you to get
a job. Oh the tranquility of sleep, but for a knock at the door.
#
"But he needs to get himself together, it's not healthy for him to
live like this," Iris mourned to Geoff.
"It's a slow healing process; we can't expect him to be back to
himself after just a week, if at all."
"But I can't just stand back and let him ruin himself," she moaned
"when my baby hurts I feel his pain."
Iris these days was a woman fraught with anxiety. She couldn't bear to
see her son going through such strife. She felt she needed to do
something, to intervene, but he was all grown up now. But so
vulnerable, so alone, how could she leave Tom to wallow so pitifully.
Ever since it happened she had watched him slide ever swifter down that
slippery slope. Both parents knew where it would lead, only to misery
and waste. Geoff knew just the same, and he felt pain for his son, but
he often found it too difficult to express his feelings.
The two of them sat together at the kitchen table, lamenting the cruel
twist of fate that had befallen their family. Black bags under Iris'
eyes from lack of sleep and artificial wakefulness from caffeine.
Geoff's heart, recovering from a quadruple bypass a year earlier, was
as fragile as ever.
The sun peeked out over the hills, and splashed Iris's features with
the golden wash of a new day. Geoff smiled momentarily. He could still
see the old Iris, the Iris beneath the folds of worry that now
characterized her delicate face. In a strange way, he treasured these
sleepless nights together. Through all their lengthy talks, he knew he
loved her and would forever, they'd had their problems, but that was
what marriage was about. But it didn't seem to help Tom at all. Geoff
recalled the last time they had spoken with Tom-it was a cruel and
bitter exchange?
#
"You can't possibly understand!"
"Like hell I can, I understand you're throwing your life away Tom,."
pleaded Iris
"Please son, we need to get you some help."
"I got all the help I need right here mum," the whisky sloshed in the
bottle.
"You're going to end up killing yourself, she's-"
"What? Not worth it? Go on, say it you cruel bitch."
"Don't you dare talk that way to your mother!" Geoff's temper
rose.
"Oh yeah, here's the big man! It's easy to take the moral high ground
with your 'faithful' wife!" the words flew like bullets.
#
He could still hear his wife's sobs as her heart was breaking, and he
could still feel the pain and shock from his own son raising a hand to
him. It felt so sinister, so wrong. This wasn't how a family was
supposed to be. He cursed his son's wife and her selfish ways, he
stifled a tear. He hated himself for feeling that way. A misty vapor
rose in the corner of his vision, the kettle was boiling. He thought of
all the wonderful times he and Iris had shared over the years and his
heart was glad, but at the same time it was torn for the pain of his
son. He poured the water into the bowl of lavender oil, and he began to
inhale deeply. Lavender was calming, his nostrils flared, and the
tendrils of soothing scent danced into his senses like an angel through
the darkness. Iris poured another coffee, hands shaking like a leaf in
a gale.
Geoff put out a hand to steady her, "Iris, you should lay off the
caffeine."
"I'll do what I damn well please," she snapped. He recoiled instantly.
That wasn't Iris talking, he thought. This was someone else, a product
of these unfortunate circumstances.
"I can't bear it any longer," she announced "I'm saving our son!" She
marched out of the room with an air of purpose and clarity.
#
Iris hammered on the apartment door-tears stained her face and scarf.
The wind was biting her to the very core. "Tom! Open up, you're worth
more than this!" No answer. She was realizing the futility of her
endeavor. She wept, and her heart cried out, it felt like a sponge that
has sat in the rain too long, a labor to carry any further. Her white
knuckles, like four sticks of chalk, rattled on the door one last time.
No answer. She decided that she would get in and help him if it killed
her.
#
"Hi, my name's Tom," he paused, his throat rasping. "And I am an
alcoholic."
#
Stephanie drew her coat tightly around her, lamenting her decision to
go without the umbrella that day. The rain was sheeting down as though
in curtains, draping itself around her, almost as though it was
insulation from the troubles of the world. Her matte black hair clung
to her face, across her scarred cheek, swept there by the howling wind
as night drew in. She had picked up the package, now she was resolute.

"I Stephanie, take thee Tom?"

She closed the door to their apartment with a sigh and cast off her
ineffectual raincoat in the vague direction of the coat hook. Water
pooled at her feet. What a rotten day, it reflected her life so
depressingly. It was time for change. She set the package down on the
kitchen table, her heels click-clacking on the spotless tile floor. It
was his cleanliness that often drove her insane. He was always so anal
about tidying, couldn't stand the smallest mess. But it was part of his
charm, it was one of the many small reasons she loved him so. How could
she have been so foolish? One drunken night of passion was not worth
the capitulation of their marriage. It was how she came to the
resolution that she must do this for him now before it was all ruined
beyond repair. A solitary tear flowed into the pool of mascara that
smeared across her cheek.

"?to be my lawfully wedded husband?"

She poured a glass of whisky and drank it quickly. Her hands were
shaking from the cold. Her mind was moving in circles, like a sinister
merry-go-round of broken memories, hurt and sorrow. She wiped a tear
from their wedding photo and took the package into the bedroom to curl
up with the photo and think about her plans.
Stephanie had always been a mild-mannered girl, but as she grew older
she began to develop a penchant for the dramatic in any given
situation. She was never good at keeping boyfriends, as she would
usually scare them off with her over-reacting and almost smothering
love. But Tom was different. Wasn't he? She couldn't be sure any more.
That's why she wanted to fix things for him, so he'd never be scared
away. It would all work perfectly. The rain water from Stephanie's
clothes began to seep into the silk bed sheets, marring them. But it
was okay, they were just sheets, Tom didn't value possessions over his
wife's comfort.

"?In sickness and in health?"

Stephanie's mind began to wander. She used to write to Tom all the
time, when he was away on business. They used to share their most
intimate feelings via the postal service. She thought they should write
to each other now, to help their communication problems. She leaned
over and wrote at the bureau for a while, spilling out her thoughts and
feelings for Tom to read at his leisure. It should be a very positive
relationship-building exercise. Then maybe they could sleep in the same
bed again. She wasn't a different person now was she?
She snuggled up to the package again, and a feeling of pulsating
warmth crept over her. She new what she had to do. She opened the
package and thought to herself about how much she loved Tom and how
much she wanted to make him happy. This was it, no more pain, no more
fighting. No more searing regret and feeling unclean in the presence of
the one she loved. This was the perfect end to their troubles.

"?'til death do us part."

"Just point and shoot," the man had said. As Stephanie pulled the
trigger, her deepest darkest fears were realized, and they all
pertained to death. Tom would forever see in his dreams and in
waking-that crimson, pink, and ivory mosaic his wife had made for him.
.