Another Glass

This short story was inspired by the music video of "A Dustland Fairytale" by The Killers.

The man downed another glass of whiskey. S**t, he shook his head as he allowed the swear word to echo through his mind. It was better to than what he had been thinking about, though. That’s for sure. 

The man looked as though he had many years behind him- he was at least fifty or so, if not, older. He had a slender frame, despite his age. Tattoos and cuts were clearly visible on his arms and legs- a result of thirty years in prison. His hair was silver in color, but suggested that it was a dark brown in his formal juvenescence. On his plaid shirt, the name John Ronald was printed in fancy script.

His eyes, though, were his most handsome and interesting physical feature. Strips of hazel dotted the outside of his pupils, and the rest of his iris was a light shade of aquamarine. He had always believed that eyes were the window to the soul, and won various fights and games of poker in his youth simply by looking into the opponent’s eyes, and “gazing into their soul.” Or, at least, that’s what he liked to call it. Others just called it “cheating.”

The thought of his adolescence was upsetting. So upsetting, in fact, that his drunken body got up from the bed and put a fist through the window of the dilapidated motel room. His hand was gushing red from were the glass had cut him, but he couldn’t feel it. His body had so much alcohol inside it that he didn’t care that the carpet, previously a cream-ish color, was now a crimson red. He didn’t care that the sheets were also stained red with blood. He slapped a band aid on the largest of the cuts, though it didn’t stop the bleeding much, and fell asleep. 

But even in his sleep, he couldn’t escape the past.

 

***

“Just hit him, goddamn it!”

“Get ‘em Kevin!”

“C’mon! You got it!”

“Hit him!”

“God! Someone’s fist needs to connect with someone’s god damn face already!”

The yells of encouragement, or, possible yells of hatred (he couldn’t tell the difference), didn’t resonate with the twenty year old. He couldn’t hear any of it, it was almost as if he had gone deaf to the rest of the world. The only thing that mattered was the guy standing in front of him, the one with a knife. The one who stole Clover from him. 

It was around midnight, and old style Ford Mustangs were parked in the middle of a grassy field, that, no doubt, wasn’t owned by any of the people standing outside the cars. Those people either wore leather jackets and faded jeans, or pretty little dresses that looked like they were worn by someone who was vaguely innocent. Those people were illuminated by the headlights of the parked mustangs and cigeratte lighters.

“No, no!” Tears were rolling down the face of a pretty brunette. “No... Kevin, don’t! Please Kevin, just... don’t do it! Don’t make the first move!”

A train of shocked realization hit the young man, and it hit him hard. That’s Clover! S**t! Why’d she show up? This is between me and Kevin, goddamn it! He silently cursed her in his mind. He cursed how pretty she was, her great personality, her rich parents, and almost everything that made him like her. But he embraced the bad things about her, for it fueled his anger at Kevin. He hated how she walked -- almost like a duck with a mental disability. He hated how clingy she was, he could never get any alone time. But most of all, he hated that she loved Kevin, and not him.

“Are ya gonna fight? Or stand their like a coward?” Kevin smirked. His cronies laughed along with him, though they stood a safe distance away from the boy. 

“Ya! Go get him!”

“Ha! I’d like to see him try!” 

“Stand back boys, I’m going in for the kill. Clover’s mine, anyway. Right, baby?” He jerked his head in the direction of the pretty brunette, and she ducked behind a car. Sobs came from the direction of that car.

“She doesn’t love you, damn it!” John spit.  “She’s just afraid of you!” Saying it aloud didn’t convince him. Well, it would take a lot of convincing to make himself believe it, because she did, in fact, genuinely like Kevin. For what reason, the man couldn’t fathom, but at times like this, even lying to yourself becomes necessary to get where you want to go in life. 

“Are you mad that she did it with me before you even got to make a move? Aww! Is little Johnny-kins upset?” He mocked. 

That was the final straw. John pulled out a switchblade, and with one stupid move, he through his life away. He looked down at Kevin’s lifeless face, and glanced at Clover’s sudden tears, and ran faster than one would think humanly possible as sirens wailed.

***

The old man awoke from his dream, and looked at the manilla folder that lay next to him. He opened it up, and found that it was stained with red, just as his sheets and the carpet were. Only the last page in the folder was still partially readable:

John R. Ronald, convicted of accidental man slaughter, and will hereby serve thirty years in prison.

He poured himself another glass of scotch.

Author's Note

Is this realistic? Please let me know if it has any grammar issues, I really hate those.