Sometimes the Bottle Hits You BackA Story by RachelThe Menards contractor salesman left work at five o’clock. He had nothing at home for him anymore, so he took a detour. His arrival still was too soon. His only hope was that she came back. He turned his head every which way, scanning the perimeters for her car. Her car wasn’t in the drive and the garage door wasn’t up. There weren’t any bikes or toys laying out in the yard. Once parked, he waited in the truck, putting off entering what he used to call a home. It would be the seventh night he had spent alone, so he already knew how it would go. He’d walk in; expecting everything to be the same, and his heart would race when he realized for the millionth time in that week that nothing was the same except that he was still alone. Like a ghost in a graveyard he drifted to the porch, where his hands fumbled with the doorknob that he used to open so thoughtlessly. The kitchen didn’t look the same. It didn’t even smell the same. There wasn’t anything on the stove. No welcoming kisses or hugs. He missed all of the things he used to resent. As he walked to the fridge where the goodbye note was pinned, the floor creaked. He laughed out loud, but inside his heart imploded. Never had he noticed all the noises the house made. It was emptier than ever, but it was far louder. It was funny how silence amplified all other sounds; he could almost hear his heart break. Not just that, the house bounced memories off each wall, but he had no shield to reflect the attack. After a moment of hesitation he slid the magnet off the note and he cradled it in his hands. His bottom lip quivered and his hands were shaking, but sat down and forced his eyes to reread the note�"the only thing left of what his life used to be. The apology that began the note was meaningless. The reasons it wouldn’t�"hadn’t�"been working were evident, but those had nothing to do with why she left him. His crazy, irregular work hours were only a small part of it. “We can work this out,” he had always insisted. They never did get around to that. His jaw hardened when he read over the words about the alcohol. His throat tightened when he read about what love is, what marriage should be, and what all of that used to be to them. That had changed too. “We’ve come to realize we don’t have to put up with you. Don’t worry about me. But I will always love you. Adieu…maybe,” the last line said. He crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it across the table. Then he lowered his head and cried. “If only she could see me now. I’ve stopped. There’s no bottle in my hand. We can work this out.” But he could feel the longing for the alcohol stronger than ever. I’ve got to get these thoughts out of my head, he thought, racking his brain for anything left of his old life that he could hold onto. His dog immediately came to mind. When was the last time I saw Rex? Rex had been gone (or overlooked maybe) for the past week that his owner had spent losing his mind. As that owner made his way out back, he kicked two empty metal bowls aside. “Rex!” He peered inside the doghouse and saw that it was empty. Rex was usually on a chain, he remembered, so he followed the links in a loop through the yard, though the tall grass made it hard to find at first. His nose suddenly became aware of Rex before his eyes had, and when he glanced behind the doghouse, he saw his dog. Insects crawled over its flesh, slowly eating what was left of it. The Menards contractor salesman’s breathing slowly ceased. © 2013 RachelAuthor's Note
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Added on October 21, 2013Last Updated on October 21, 2013 Author
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