A Gray Day

We’ll leave it as is.  Sadly, based on a true (and current) story.

His ghoulish face surveyed the scene, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of a beer bottle’s label.  The autumn world seemed strangely muted, dimmed, watered-down, and the leaves turning only highlighted the redundancy of the season.

I don’t think I can do it, he whispered, before lifting the bottle and drinking it all down.  It’s impossible.

I was quiet for a moment.  Red bolts of lightning forked through the whites of his eyes, but I rarely heard the thunder.  It’s a different kind of thunder: for every six words you hear, the storm is that much closer.  That’s crazy, man.  Totally nuts.  He grunted and closed his eyes.  Sighing, he reached down into the lukewarm twelve-pack and produced another bottle.  I continued.  It’s gotta happen, man, and you know it.  We’ll be here for you, buddy.  It won’t be easy, but you’ve got to do it.

You have no idea, he muttered.  No idea at all.  His face was as pale as lime, and he was sweating despite the cool.  An ambulance, sirens singing, raced down the street before us.  I could almost hear the stretched skin drily pop and crinkle as his mouth contorted into a humorless rictus grin.  Ever take a ride in one of those?  It’s almost exciting.  Death is almost a thrill ride.

I knew I couldn’t, but I wanted to slap him.  That’s a whole lot of ‘almost,’ buddy.  He grunted again, and I think he regretted having sat down to speak with me.  Don’t you wanna have money again?  Remember that freedom?  As if I’d wanted to speak with him, as if this was easy or fun or anything but dire need swallowing discomfort.  Let’s make it all as it was.  Crack open the odometer, spin it back a few numbers, and start moving forward again.

Stupid analogy, he murmured with a thoughtful look.  There’s no undoing what’s been done and did and dead, unless you be the Time Traveller or Doc Brown.  The lank hair on his head hung heavy with grease, and when he brushed it out of his eyes, he had to wipe his hand off on his jeans.  Speaking of mistakes, who was the girl in your room this morning?  Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?

Dammit, dude, we’re not talking about me.

Ha, of course we’re not.  Maybe you should fix your own life, Mitchy, before you go retooling mine.  He finished another beer and dropped it at his feet, and it landed in a pile of used, bloodied Kleenex.  ‘Cause believe me, brother, you ain’t got the tools for it.  We garbed ourselves in the silence, then.  He looked up from the desolation of the newly-seeded lawn and peered around, taking in the peculiar lighting, the notable absence of chiaroscuro.  It’s gray today.  I nodded agreement.  I’ll be right back

He came right back, but I didn’t see him again for hours.