Gula

Mind slurred in thought he sat, ticking over the numbers in his head.  Numbers that meant little, just numbers.  He had spoken aloud once, sharing the figures in his thoughts.

One, nineteen, fifty-three, twenty-eight.

“Are those your lotto numbers dear?”  An old woman turned to ask.

He just looked away; the numbers weren’t for the lottery.  They were the number of drinks he’d had that night.  It changed each day, sometimes little, mostly more.  He was able to count the first few. One, two, four.  He believed he made sure of that.  Then his mind began to churn, and soon he could no longer remember how many had leeched down his throat.  He still tried, racking though his archive of disgruntled memories to recall it.  He always drunk at the same pace; one beer, another, one more, never taking more time on one than the next.

In that way he passed the numbers through his head, in no particular order, over and over again, waiting for the time when the one would come that held his answer.

Off somewhere, he heard the cheers of a football match.  He grunted to strain his ears and listen to the score.  In a further room, darker where the people couldn’t see the slips in their hands, a screen shouted the racing.  The betting odds all seemed the same.  There seemed excitement for a moment, someone had won.  Or perhaps a loss resulted in the same bellow.  Then again, it may just have been enough for a schooner.  On Tuesdays the room would be full of cardigans and daubers, exclamations on the husky lips of the lucky some.
Nearby a soccer game was interrupted by the roll of the lottery.  Five, twenty-four, two, the final number thirteen.  If he had been watching, he would have recalled he was a superstitious fellow, but he hadn’t been.

Six, thirty-three, eleven, orange.  Sometimes, he found his mind caught up elsewhere, thoughts of his surroundings coming to him.  He had never liked the amber colour of beer.  Nor did he really like the slickness of its dull taste either.  There was something though, in its disgust, that gave him pleasure.  Something in the way the melancholy sloshes danced upon the table top.  The thoughts of his mind were caught up too much in trying to enjoy the drink to care about much else.

Once, just once, he had thought about going straight home for the night.  He had paused at the roundabout, and considered instead of going left, going right where he knew there would be a steaming dinner.  Then he thought about the conversation he’d have to confront, and the teenage daughter that he’d have to smile at.  It’s harder to forget one’s looks when there was something to remind you.  He went left.

Three, ninety-two, twenty-four, eight.  Eight.  That was how many he had.  He knew the answer to be true as the figure caught his mind.  He never considered of how he didn’t trust his mind at these times.  Never, when he recalled the number, would he notice the sliver of doubt that lay hidden at the back of his head.  It only mattered what he told himself, not whether he was right.  

Eight.  He downed the last of the drink and got another.  Just one more, always one more.  It was a reward as such, for recalling the number of drinks.  He had earned it.  He would leave after this drink, he made sure of that.  To add one more drink to the collection churning in his stomach was not a bad thing; it saw him on his way.

He finished the drink and rose, done with eight and the extra one. He was meticulous.  Drink till he recalled what he took as right, have one more, then leave. Just like always.  No more, no less.  Some nights it brought him to the near hours of the close of darkness, others he was home whilst the dinner was still warm.

He wasn’t drunk he told himself, he was never in such a state.  Drunk would mean stumbling, slurring at vulnerable girls, not understanding the difference between one and two.  He was never like that.  He never told himself he was like that.

Out he staggered to his car, making easy steps in his mind.  The silver one with the black notch, not the gold.  The gold was for… nothing important, he told himself as he always did when his mind forgot a point.  Few things were important at this hour.  The engine ignited and he hastened home, rambling through lights and signs without a second thought.  Perhaps he’d slow down at the hint of a siren in his ears, the slight flash in his mirror.  It was after the thought had passed that he realised what he had done.  Can’t change the past, he told himself at those moments.  Always the same.

He drove on, eyeing the road with which he shared no companions.  He rarely met another on this forgotten road, most believing a quicker route to be taken through buildings and homes.  If he had looked, he would only see the faint outline of a house, secluded in its grassy estate.  It was easier in the quiet, to put his thoughts to only that which he wanted. 

Lazily his eyes began to drift; first to the trees, then to the dark sky above that shepherded the stars to the moon.  That star there, that was a bright one, he thought.  Beside it was another.  It could be a hat up there, a garland for some Greek king.  Or a cup; perhaps it was a goblet that a great god used to drink his wine.  The various uses for the constant stars passed through his head.  Maybe one day, a beauty had presented this goblet as a marriage gift to a humble god, or a task had been placed on a disciple to summon a feast.  It didn’t really matter, but it was easy to think of these things which never held significance.

The stars were growing closer before him.  It must be a shooting star he thought, and closed his eyes to make a wish.  What would he wish for?  There were many things turning through his head behind the dark lids. 

He didn’t see the final flash of lights before his eyes.  He barely felt a thing either, but he knew he had felt something that was not a star’s magic.  Someone had hit him.  He braked and jumped from the seat, looking around for the culprit.

There she was, head lolling in a shattered car, pressed against the tree.  A trickle of blood, dark in the moonlight, fell from her head.  He turned to eye his own car, seeing just a small gash along the front bumper.

“Good,” he said aloud.  “Otherwise you’ll be paying for this.”  The moonlight dropped down amongst the woman’s face.  He considered her young, but these days, everyone was young to him.  Compelled by the beam of light he moved closer, tasting the smell of an unrecognisable scent.  He wondered what her voice would sound like, pretty he believed.  A bit like his child he imagined. He shuddered at the thought; he would never know what his child’s voice would grow to be like. Sounds die quickly in graves.

He no longer wanted to stay.

He staggered back to his car, turned the silver key with a shaking hand and drove off, spending no more time there than he wished to.  As the scene behind him left his sight, his mind accompanied its path.  The woman was forgotten, that child a vapour.  

Lights slid to meet him as he ambled up the drive, stopping just short of the door.  Again he fumbled with the keys, it was the gold one, that’s what it was.  The other gold one, he realised when the first didn’t fit.  So what was the other gold one for; the key to a mystery perhaps?

The lights were on as he entered the house, upstairs it was dark. He felt like calling out, just to hear the voice of his daughter.

“Dear?”  His wife had moved besides him.  Why had it been a question?  He recalled she had been calling to him.

She pecked him on the check. He never noticed the disgusted look as she pulled away.

“Do you have any plans for Saturday?”

He was always busy in his spare time.

“It’s just the fence needs fixing, I thought you could do it then.”

“Nah, I’ll be busy.”  He looked around, as if trying to find something to fiddle with, something to replace the glass.

“It needs fixing.” Maybe he could have noticed the tone in her voice rise, but he didn’t.

“No.”

“Fix it. I no longer want our house looking like a scrapyard.”  He didn’t see the anger grow into sadness.

“Do it yourself my, petty darling.”  He had already left, strolling into the kitchen where dinner awaited him on the table.

 

With the morning’s rise done, he shuffled through the kitchen.  A glimpse of brown hair caught his eyes.  He turned away.  He preferred not to see his daughter in the morning, his mind most vulnerable to thought at this time.  He imagined her as the mirror image of the sister she would never know of.  It had all started then.  There are easy ways to overcome unwanted moments, they’re the ones that tend to last.

He sat on the couch, watching the news roll over his mind.  A murder there, a war in the Middle East, a car that hit a tree.  All trivial things, nothing to concern him.  That’s what he always told himself.

 

Three, sixty-nine, seventeen, eleven.  Eleven.  Eleven plus one.  Once the extra drink had swilled down his throat he rose, leaving behind the AFL game with its sixes and ones.  He staggered to his car, found himself almost meeting the footpath, but he wasn’t drunk he told himself.

In his eyes, his hands were steady on the wheel, turning the corners with precision.  This night, he trailed his eyes along the land, glancing over the trees.  He didn’t care for the sky anymore.  Unchanging before him, thick black trunks stood without hinges on their flat surface.  At his speed, he did not notice the rough edges of their skin before he carried himself out of sight.

Then, different.  A gash there, pulled from the tree’s bark, surrounded by a ring of blue and white tape.  What was so special about this tree?  He pulled over, stopping short of the flimsy barricade.  Out in the air, he felt as if a fog was swirling around him.  With a hand he batted it away.  He tried again, aiming for the source of mischief.  A thud came against his head.  The fog cleared a little.

He could see the tree properly now, its raw insides a sap-covered white.  Down it went, leading to marks etched in the dirt.

He almost expected to hear the dash of a voice on the wind.  If he had it would only be a long-gone ghost calling out.

There had been a scream, a flash, a feeling.  He heard, saw it, felt it.  The woman, the woman with the voice he had never heard.  Never would hear.  Two unknown voices would lie in graves.  One may have been young, a small thing; the other was grown, a pretty thing.  Both had been delicate. Both were now more delicate then before.

He did not want to think anymore, he did not want to think again.  He reached his car, fumbled with the key.  Not the gold, the silver, the silver one with the black notch.  He found it.  The car started with a shudder, and he felt the vibrations spark through him.

Out of sight he drove, like a man that stumbled down the lane.  The tree was left to stand, forgotten soon with the mind of one that did not want to recall.  He had not found his way to forget, but he had found his way to not remember.

No one had heard the shout when he recalled the memory of one; no one would hear that same shout again.  He had remembered once, and tomorrow he would forget in the same manner.  As always.

 

Three, fifty-four, twenty-one, nine.  He didn’t know why, but he preferred to drive through the suburbs the next day instead of taking the back route.  He did that the day after too and the day after again, always in the same slurred state.  He didn’t have to recall again. 

He never realised that it was always on his seventh drink that he left.