Tumbler

Short story about a man with a vice.

The clock says 2:00 AM, but it is set a few minutes fast. The dim glow of the desk lamp crawls across the walls and my paper. My finger caresses the lip of a crystal tumbler, gently playing with the rim, teasing and taunting the contents within. The house is quiet, save for the occasional sound of a passing car outside the window.

I drink.

                Time passes and I am still facing a blank paper. I know what I want to say, but I simply cannot translate it into written word. The tumbler feels empty, or at least not nearly full enough, so I uncap the bottle of gin and top off. I am not a half empty kind of a guy. I prefer to be absolutely full because at least then there is no room for misinterpretation. I drop another ice cube into the tumbler and sit back.

I drink.

                The empty house is unsettling. It has been for quite some time now. It is a rather large home, meant to house a family of four or five, not one lonely man. Rising from my desk, tumbler in tow, I walk into the kitchen. The creaking mahogany floorboards follow behind me, guiding me in the right direction, helping me steer straight. Perhaps they were right.

I drink.

                Post-it notes smother the front of my refrigerator. They cover the length of my kitchen-table. They trace a line along my counter-top. The words and messages are scrambled, incoherent, and unrelated. They are merely penned thoughts from the past few weeks, piling up outside of my mind, leaving me free of their burden. I rip over the freezer door and plunge my hand into the ice box for a few more ice cubes. As the freezer door swings shut, I read the words,” Saying Sorry?” on a bright pink post-it.

I drink.

                Returning to my foyer, the silence of my home has become too much, and I turn on the radio. The music follows me back to my desk and sits down with me to wallow in self-pity; it sits with me obediently, not yelling at me or lecturing me.  The blank paper stares up at me, demanding I give it some purpose, some reason to have been plucked from the notebook other than adorning my desk throughout the evening. I pick up my pen and write the words,” I’m sorry.”

I drink.

                I pick up my pen and look back over the words freshly inked.  I strike them out and write,” I am a hypocrite.” I then strike those words out and write,” You were right.” I stop there and lean back. The tumbler rattles around in my other hand, calling out to me for some attention. It is a very needy tumbler and requires constant attention.

I drink, and I drink, and I drink until the tumbler is empty and the ice cubes are now lonely and purposeless. The bottle of gin leaning against my desk lamp is nearly empty, having a purpose at one point, but as time progressed that purpose was stripped of it. It now merely exists until I decide to throw it out and replace it. I wonder if that is how she feels about me now. I rise from the chair and barrel towards the stereo. I mash the buttons and knobs, distorting the sound, raising the volume, and distracting my mind.

I fall forward against the shelf the stereo rests on, smashing my face against a glass picture frame. I shout obscenities, but my cries are quickly drowned out by the trickling blood pooling inside my lips. I cry once more, and the blood sprays across the shelf, coating the stereo and picture frame, the few odd books and fine china. I fall backwards at the bloody sight, the music now loud enough that it is screaming at me the whole way. I reach frantically for my tumbler.

I drink nothing. I throw the tumbler against the wall, the crystal shattering on impact, the shards coating the mahogany floorboards throughout the foyer.  The gin in my system tells me, “You have more in your desk drawer, go get it.” My feet oblige, and they are soon impaled on shards of crystal.

This is what my life has come to. The words “You Were Right” stick out on the paper, taunting me as they sit back and watch my current situation unfold. My bloodied face and feet leave a trail in their wake, marking the events so I can be reminded of them in the morning when I wake. The broken tumbler and empty g in bottle is all she ever wanted. Tonight, she at least got her way, but she is not here to witness it of course.

I collapse on my couch, oblivious to the shooting pains from the shards of crystal in my feet. I leave the paper on my desk, still adorned with the words “You were right”, the words “I am sorry” and “I am a hypocrite” crossed out. Perhaps at the divorce proceedings I will tell her,” You were right. I am not sorry. Take care of the kids. Goodbye.” I drift off to sleep in my drunken stupor. I dream of what my life has amounted to.

I drink.

Reviews

[nostal]

Nicely written and detailed. Each paragraph is a whole different layer added on to the story.

[deeps]

I like story it's very well written
Wonderful imagery. Not to many people
Use the word hypocrite anymore.
I like this I thought it was written very well.