Borderland

The first time I got drunk I thought about my eighth grade language arts teacher.  She taught me what adverbs were, proper four square strategy, and how to be a confident and outgoing individual.

That night I had forgotten what it meant to be self-assured.  Emptiness consumed me more than anything and so I turned to alcohol.  I cannot explain why I chose this action; my entire life I’ve been adamantly against drinking without reason and so I was surprised with myself when I sacrificed my moral code for a chance to forget and a chance to feel new fantasies.

Riley brought me to the party after I asked her to help me find a temporary escape.  It was her boyfriend’s house, and while they were in the back room having sex I downed my fourth beer and sauntered out of the kitchen.  Passing through a spare room where a circle of faceless husks were smoking weed and collapsing, I hazily undulated toward the front windows.

There was the moon out there, and stars.  Glowing stars.  Stars that made you think about the way your breaths sound.  I put my hand to the window, feeling the brisk October chill on the other side.  It was coolly calming and I watched the nighttime drizzle splatter against the glass, moonbeams refracted in the slipping cohesion.

My brain was throbbing with the driving force of house music reverberations and I felt dizzy from the drinks.  The house had become stagnant and I desired release from its burdens.  I heard Riley scream from somewhere in the back and I stumbled out the front door, knocking over a table as I went and thus ending a miserable game of beer pong.

The air sunk its fangs into my skin and I bled.  There was a children’s park across the street.  Ghostly swings swept silently through the night as they dangled from tangled chains.  I tumbled down the driveway and across the paved road to that playground and slid into one of these.  It was wet from the rain but not uncomfortably so.  I began to swing and I thought about Celine.

My parents used to take us to the community park every Sunday evening when we were young, and they would push us on the swings.  Dad always pushed me and I would look over at Celine and force my tongue out towards her because Dad always pushed harder than Mom, so I soared while she hovered.  Celine would reciprocate the taunt and thrust her arm toward me with belligerent intentions.  Her efforts were unsatisfied since I was a moving target, and as a child I took a sort of pride in that invulnerability.

After swinging Celine and I would chase each other around the open fields until we collapsed in exhaustion.  Mom and Dad would hoist us upon their backs and carry us to the top of the hill, where we all sat together to watch the radiating sunset.

The moon shone down on the puddles at my feet while I sat on that swing in a state of faded hollowness.  I could still hear the party alive and pulsing over there, but this dormant chilly air breathing down my neck felt more homely.

After ten minutes or an hour I abandoned the park and followed my feet down the street.  It felt like some sort of a fault line.  I was perched precariously on that border, unsure of which side I would topple towards.

I thought about my language arts teacher again.  When I graduated high school she hugged me and told me something important.  “You can’t go back,” she said.  “Time propels us all forward endlessly and you must make the most of the present, because it won’t exist again and the past is already a foreign land.”  She smiled and hugged me again.

I continued down the middle of the road.  As it was a residential avenue and it was sometime between midnight and sunrise, no vehicles emerged from the blackness to disrupt my march.  This was good, as I was still drunk and although I felt the air was relieving some of that status, my mind was still faltering, as were my wobbly feet.

The pavement was cold and slick with moisture, the same sticky film that lingered about in the atmosphere.  The misty dankness was ominous and ever pressing against my drowsy body.  Leaves of infinitesimal autumnal shades were plastered to the asphalt, soggy and bereft of their alluring crispness.

Night seemed to encroach deeper, penetrating through me and piercing my heart.  Still I stumbled, wavering from one side of the road to the other, plunging into oblivion.  I became aware of large trees lining either side of the road, their branches and decaying leaves forming a canopy over me.  Reds, yellows, singed oranges and wasted browns formed a ceiling, sheltering me from the falling drizzle that was steadily intensifying.

I wondered what Riley was doing.

The scenic fall path felt very much like a wasteland to me, a place where dreams and expectations went to perish.  Through the gaps in the rustling leaves I gazed at the grand starscape above.  The illustrious beauties danced with a motion I couldn’t fathom.  Dizzied and distracted, I lost my footing and fell to the cold and unforgiving ground.

My brain hurt and my breaths shortened.  Being on this path was oddly uncomfortable and the effects of drunkenness felt more prominent all at once.  October was becoming harsher and bitterer.  Perhaps I was just shaking on the inside.  Trembles persisted as I attempted to rise to my feet.

Two daunting headlights appeared in the nothingness and a horn began to blare after I had been thrown into the spotlight.  I found my footing and processed what was before me, heartbeat rapid.  I was still somehow rooted to that nebulous concrete spot, held back by an indefinable force.  The vehicle raged nearer, seemingly intent on exiling me from this space.

Something in my head finally clicked and I leapt aside into the dewy grass, the vehicle flying past.  I tottered to my feet again and trekked back to the house.