52 Stories from 52 Photos: ‘#29’

Callum W. Stannard
Jul 23, 2017 · 5 min read

Early sun had draped itself long and far across the already hot tarmac, casting shadows over the spot where I’d just woken up. I licked my lips and attempted to dampen a mouth so dry I could choke. Reaching for a bottle at my side I knocked it back and just enough dribbled out to thaw my desperate throat. Attempting to elevate myself to my knees, the change in position introduced me to the pain in my head which felt like shrapnel violently lodged diagonally through my skull from brow to the back of my neck. I cried out quietly as I slowly got on two feet. It took me a long time to get home and when I finally did, there was only a short amount of time for me to get myself together before I had to leave again. I splashed some water on my face and hair, and risked a rare, momentary glance at my reflection in the mirror. There I saw the unfamiliar portrait of a sinner hanging there woefully in the dingy bathroom. I changed out of the dirty clothes I’d woken in and pulled on a creased shirt, trousers and sad-looking tie before leaving for work.

The bank job had become nothing more than a self-enforced distraction — a mental flagellation I exposed myself to Monday to Friday. I sat behind the glass dealing with customers’ money using as little words as possible. At lunch time I headed straight to the pub opposite and drank just enough to get me through the afternoon, when — at 5pm sharp — I’d head straight back there. My life had reduced to a very simple formula:
Salary = Drink Money - Rent
It’s amazing how basic your existence becomes when you embrace the fritterings of your foundational desires. This formula is repeated 12 times and suddenly a year has passed without any conflict or drama. People only encounter hurdles in their life when they try to enrich it with nice things they feel they deserve. When you know, deep down in your heart that you deserve nothing then Nothing becomes very easy to maintain. That day was like no other. By 8:30pm I was still at the pub opposite the bank, 2 beers and 4 scotches in and nothing to eat. After ordering my last drink, I heard one of the guys behind the bar mutter “Cette garçon boit pour se noyer.” The barmen there knew me well and knew I never caused a problem however much I drank. I just sat quietly, routinely getting through as much as I could with absolute stoney-faced intention.

The next morning was a Saturday which meant only one thing to me. I rose late and started drinking right away. Hair of the dog that bit you — my poor dog must be bald and bare as a naked mole rat by now. After taking the particularly sharp edge off, I dragged myself out of my hole and made for a bar. The weekend meant I would go somewhere different to drink, if only to mark it out as different from a week night. I ended up at some old music hall at the end of the pier. It had a faded seaside glamour that reminded me of my childhood and today it felt right. It wasn’t a particularly hot day and the breeze was strong out on the coast but I sat outside to stay awake. More than a few drinks in and I found myself gazing down into the amber liquid in my glass. Then I gazed upward at the rolling clouds. It all seemed the same to me — being tossed around between water and air; a prisoner to the whims and fancy of the irrational elements.

I bought a fifth of scotch on my way home a took drags from it through the brown bag it was in. By this point I could tell I was swaying; mainly from the wide birth being afforded me by passers-by. They all seemed so happy, so full of promise that the budding Saturday night held for their revelry. I felt like a black spot interrupting it all — a moment of pity breaking up the joy. I made it as far as the park near home before collapsing onto a bench. The booze was hitting me wrong tonight but I soldiered through. There was an urgency to carry on; hoping that one more swig would knock the thoughts out my head. Of course, this never worked and as I sat there alone I felt harsh tears oozing from my tired eyes. I put the bottle down only to cover my face, trying desperately to get a hold of myself. When I looked up there was the figure of a young boy in front of me.

He slowly approached me and I sat motionless, paralysed with fear. I couldn’t make him out through the tears and my blurred vision but he looked familiar although I knew we had never met. He reached his arm slowly out towards me then veered to my side and picked up the bottle of whisky. He backed away with it slowly, like a ship in the night. Carefully and gracefully, he unscrewed the cap and went to lift the glass to his lips. My voice cracked as I tried to cry out;
“No! Don’t! It’s not for you, you don’t need that.”
He turned to look at me and paused momentarily while I continued.
“Put it down, boy please. It’ll ruin you. I won’t let it ruin you.”
I pleaded with him desperately and reached out my arms to grab the bottle back. Clasping my cold hands around it I yanked it from him effortlessly and threw it hard against the ground — the loud smash making me jump. When I looked up the boy was gone; nowhere to be seen in any direction. I wiped the angry tears from my cheeks, kicked the shards into a pile and headed home to my bed.

Callum W. Stannard

Written by

Digital Account Manager but I write short stories, talk music and photography. Also do a mental health podcast thegoodlisteners.co.uk. I speak that ugly elegant

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