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Drunk |
| Written by Tom Shandruk | |
| Saturday, 07 April 2007 | |
The juice of the apple ran smoothly down his throat, causing his mouth to long for the second bite. When it came, his mouth replied by releasing a splurge of saliva to receive the new treasure from the bright red kingdom of pleasure. A gust of wind caused the leaves above him to shift, knocking a loose fruit from it's perch. It seemed to fall forever, slowly dropping to the soft ground. It landed with a light thud, cushioned by the thick, green grass that surrounded the trees. He ignored it, concentrating instead on the small fish in the brook. Darting back and forth, lime-green and silver fish played and hunted and slept. They were a spectacular sight made by the sun's rays reflecting off the uneven water, and off the fish's scales. But something was wrong. One of the fish was floating unnaturally above the rest, bobbing above and then below the water. It was dead. Finishing his apple, and tossed the core aside and went to stand. A strong gust threw him back against the trunk. The gust knocked several apples off of the tree. But, as he discovered, they were different: They were in fact rotten. Dead. Dumbfounded, he looked to the sky. It seemed a storm was approaching. It was suddenly humid, and darker. He felt something in his hair. Looking up, he was immediately frozen by the sight before him: Each leaf was detaching it's self from it's branch, turning a sickly brown, then shriving up into a fine dust which was falling onto the ground, and onto him. The ground seemed to be infected by this as well. The once lush green carpet that was had turned a light tan, and each blade seemed to crumble under it's own weight. The scene was even more horrific at the point where the short grass melded with the tall stalks. A wave of death had originated from the trees, spreading like a ripple through a pond, decimating each stalk as it was hit. The all of this had taken at the most a minute. He could move again, but he did not want to. He was filled with despair, grief. Guilt. The horn was what jolted him out of the sleep. Immediately realizing he was driving, he swerved. In vain. He hit an on-coming van head-on. At 50 miles per hour. He felt nothing, it was so fast. The bottles shattered, the smell of beer filling his nostrils. He hit someone. Oh God, he hit so-. Darkness. A prick in his arm. A tightening in his chest. His head ached. He needed to throw up. He did. He slept. He awoke, but did not know where he was. Bits of conversation flowed into his ear. The son of a ***** was drunk. Drunk?! Drunk. Oh ----! That beer. The one beer. And the one before that. And before that. Oh God! He passed out. He awoke to a cool constriction on his wrists. Cuffs. Cool metal handcuffs. And, as he lifted his head to see, there was a uniformed officer seated beside his bed. He relaxed, flopping back onto the bed. He thought of his wife, children, and then of the others. There had to be others. He muttered the words. The officer was in no way polite in his telling of all five passengers' deaths. The man felt his chest tighten again. The edges of his sight grew dark. The officer jumped up and called a nurse. Men, women, all around him. He saw them. He tried to repent. He failed. He died. Copyright 2007 Tom Shandruk {moscomment} |
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