4 am
Previously published in The Avalon Literary Review.
After pushing my way into the bedroom, I gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the flood of incandescence before scanning the room for clues. There was some blood on the sheets of the unmade canopy bed, and tubes from the IV machine were tangled in a heap near the pillow. I followed the droplets across the hardwood to an area rug and stopped at the door to the ensuite. She must’ve ripped the vein while taking out the needle, causing the wound to spurt blood with every bump of her little old heart.
“Mom?” I asked, while knocking with fingertips. “Maureen?” For whatever reason she’d stopped answering to Mom.
“Who’s there?” a feeble voice sighed.
“It’s me, Joseph. Can I come in and help you?” Exhausted, I rested my forehead against the door. Other than the eek of floorboards under my shifting weight, there was silence. Having removed the lock years ago, I carefully let myself in. The thinned nightie hung from her wiry shoulders like a windsock on a calm day. She was wavering in the corner with her back to the vanity. At that point, she could no longer bear the sight of her own reflection. I suspected that she didn’t recognize the face staring back, or perhaps the generations of rue had finally caught up.
She looked past me and held her hand up to the light causing the blood to unravel down her arm like a ribbon of licorice.
See Alice
Previously published in Heart of Flesh Literary Journal.
“For a rickety old-timer,” my wife says before getting into the cart, “it can still create a rush of blood to all the right places. Add some bump and grind, and BOOM! I just might need a cigarette after!” She giggles and gives my butt a playful tap as I wriggle in beside her. Her feistiness pokes at my amygdala, putting me on high alert.
What excuses do I have left? Maybe I can pretend to be too drunk again?
I draw the safety bar down and notice the slack after engaging the lock. There’s more play in the aging coaster’s mechanisms than I’m comfortable with, causing the restraint to feel more like a stretch of rope across my lap than a tube of metal.
With my arms poised like a praying mantis, I signal Alice with an elbow poke.
“Good idea!” She reaches into the interior of her jean jacket and pulls out the flask. Her eyes dart in every direction before not so discreetly taking a nibble of bourbon. She pushes it to my lips, encouraging more than a mouthful.
As the coaster drags our asses up to the peak, Alice nuzzles her face into my side and asks, “Oh god, are we about to torpedo into the dregs of hell?!” She pretends like we don’t have every motion of the ride etched into our hearts.