I was gently carried up the stairs, rather limp. My head banging against the bannister.
I mumbled incoherently. Passed in and out of consciousness.
Was this it? Was this my death now coming to greet me, to comfort me, promising to make it quick and painless?
“He’ll thank me one day,” I heard Arthur whisper. “Admittedly not today, but one day.” If I survived.
It was a ritual, handed down. “His father taught me how to drink by nearly killing me,” he tried to explain. “Gave me my very first lesson in these joys of adulthood. I am merely returning the compliment.” The defence rests, your honour. He sounded concerned though, as my head smacked the wall, Arthur not quite making the turn at the top of the stairs.
I was having an out-of-body experience, watching them carry me, legs “akimbo” from this cradle, arms stiff, head dangling, my tongue rolling out and my eyes spinning.
“What have you done?” There was Ellie, blond and beautiful Ellie: the last vision I would see. My angel. Bloody hell, she was going to kill me, for I was suddenly sure that I’d made something of a mess on her new carpet.
My head, forced down a toilet bowl, kept in place with a strong hand, for they knew what was best for me.
“I’m sorry,” I started to say, about the carpet, about this, about a lot of things really, but I was interrupted by a revitalised urge to throw up. My stomach painfully clenched, rippling now, trying to throw something away, far, far away judging by the force with which I hurled into the ceramic bowl.
God, it hurt!
I sprayed her newly decorated bathroom, totally unable to control myself… and I may have made a bit of a mess in the downstairs one as well, now I come to think of it. I heard her curse. Heard her swear at Uncle Arthur, and threaten certain parts of his anatomy: the vulnerable parts that dangled.
“Oh, I knew that somehow this would be my fault!”
“Sorry,” I mumbled very weakly, hoping that it would make a difference. I wouldn’t be able to show my face around here ever again. I was a disgrace. But head down that bowl again, just in time. And the only way to stop the room from spinning, to lessen that orchestra banging in my head… The strong smell of fresh disinfectant suddenly wafting around me.
I thanked Auntie for her concern, as she hovered over me: a strange voice echoing, assuring her that her care wasn’t necessary. And a weak beg for her forgiveness, all cobbled together with the vow of never again.
“I feel fine.” Such an obvious lie. Hanging to the toilet with all the strength I had left, and smiling up at her, my neck bones cracking, what looked like carrot trapped between teeth and with my breath strongly reeking.
I will never forget the look of disgust breaking through her pity. As she gazed down on me and around at her new bathroom; at the washbasin and the white bath; at the perfect shower unit, finished just yesterday; at the tiled walls. All now dripping.
“I must have eaten something?” The pickled egg the main suspect, not that she believed me for a minute. Another frantic call for yet more strong bleach. Or, failing that, a loaded shotgun, both of which could be found under the sink.
“Don’t worry,” I tried to console her. “I’ll most likely be dead in a minute.”
“You’ve upset her now,” Arthur whispered in my ear. What had I done that for? I had totally ruined their Christmas! He threatened to hold my still spinning head down the toilet bowl now glistening with the lining of my stomach. He threatened to flush it. But I couldn’t understand it. I really thought I had him, the cocky Liam. Especially after the third time. I looked up, apologetic yet confused.
“What did you get him into that state for?” Ellie hissed as I began to hallucinate. “I’ll give you bloody ritual, a bloody rite of passage… Look at the state of my house. I’ll never get that off the wall…” What was it anyway? “And how in hell did the idiot manage to project it all the way up there?”
“I am so sorry…”
“Shut up you.” She hadn’t finished, obviously. And now she’d lost her train of thought.
“Marg and Del will be here any minute,” Auntie suddenly recalled. “And what the hell am I supposed to tell them? Eh?” Asked with a carefully delivered prod. “I’m not going to be the one who tells them he’s dead.” She was adamant.
Death quietly smiled at me while tidying his cloak and then cleaning his scythe. Tutting and constantly checking the watch loosely attached to his bony arm. Despite his pleasant demeanour, I could tell he was growing impatient. He’d appreciate it if we could hurry this along. He was pressed for time. He had another two unfortunates to greet before tea, Christmas being his busiest time of the year. Sad, but what can you do? If your name’s on the list, your name’s on the list.
So this was it. This was to be my squalid death.
Simon's Ramblings... 