By Christopher Lee
The world before my eyes moved in slow motion, and not for the first time, I realized that I have two things in my hand: a glass of hard whiskey—the kind that my father always said would one day put hair on my chest—and a gun—the kind that could one day put a hole in my head. Or someone else’s, the possibilities are truly endless.
I wondered, for just a moment, where in the hell I am. I strained and attempted to focus my drunk and wandering eyes in the shapeless dark room, and in an instant, I became overrun by a powerful sense of recognition which was followed immediately by the staggering urge to vomit.
Seconds later, I did.
Some things do hurt worse coming up.
From as far back as I can remember, I have always believed in the notion that each and every person is in complete control of his or her destiny. Up until this juncture in my life, I can honestly say that this very fallacy served to shape my existential being, but here in this room, this hell, I learned the truth. With chaos at the forefront of my mind, I reached into my pockets, digging; searching for some kind of missing puzzle piece that could make this shit make some semblance of sense.
If it could make sense.
You won’t remember, said a stranger in my head. You never do.
The first thing my hands wandered upon was a book of matches with the name of some night club called The Supermassive Black Hole, a name which I thought to be far too pretentious for my taste. But, of course, leave it to the man with the taste of bile in the back of his throat to be picky. Just below the matches was a mostly- crushed pack of cigarettes, which I opened up to get a look inside. Ordinarily, these cancer sticks would only serve to disgust me, being a non smoker all my life, but extraordinary circumstance sometimes call for drastic actions.
I popped the match and breathed deep a sigh that was strangely satisfying and not in the least bit harsh, which only served to raise more questions than it could have answered. Now, I could continue my quest to bring to light the events of the former evening. Aside from some lint in the far recesses of my pocket, and a receipt detailing a late night craving for cheap Mexican food—not surprising for an intoxicated man—there was no further evidence to be found, which was disappointing in every sense of the word.
Just let it go, there’s no sense in trying to recall. Some thoughts just don’t know how to go away.
The biggest concern on the cusp of my brain was the large crimson puddles at my feet; bodies of liquid that spread in several feet in all directions. For a brief moment, I began to feel the overwhelming sense of panic washing over me in waves, mixing with my drunken stupor, converging into a trepidation I’ve never known to be possible.
Above me hung a single lightbulb that now began to flicker in the otherwise pitch black room, and in my worried state, my eyes began to dart about all the visible corners of my prison in a frantic attempt to seek out some means of escape. I tried to scream, but no sound would emerge from the desert that was my throat. Instead, all that could be heard was a raspy whine that could barely even break the silence. It was in that moment that I remembered the whiskey in my hand.
It’s almost time to start again…
So, I lifted the crystal glass to my parched lips and drank the liquid warmth down.
The world before my eyes moved in slow motion, and not for the first time, I realized that I have two things in my hand: a glass of hard whiskey—the kind that my father always said would one day put hair on my chest—and a gun—the kind that could one day put a hole in my head.
Or someone else’s.
The possibilities are truly endless…
Christopher Lee was born and raised in Orlando, Florida and from a young age, always had a penchant for writing. During his high school years, Christopher worked closely with a lot of other writers in groups and continues to work alongside his friends and colleagues still. Although he often dabbles in various hobbies such as playing music, this man’s heart will always belong to his writing. Even though he is new to publishing his work, there is no doubt that Christopher Lee is a name to be remembered and a force to be reckoned with.
