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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Death / Heartbreak / Loss
- Published: 12/19/2015
Peter Darry was drunk.
However, he was not the kind of stumbling-around-blindly, implausibly-amorous and spending-more-money-than-you-have-on-shot-glasses-filled-with-laughter-and-fun drunk.
Peter was the kind of drunk to drown one's own sorrows - the kind of drunk where you pour the poison down your throat in the hopes that perhaps it will numb your blood and brain cells.
Peter was so drunk, he could feel it running in his veins.
She'd told him that she loved him. Her sweet sound and impeccable hair curled down her back. That was 57 years ago, nevertheless, when she was still full of life and her skin was smooth and free of wrinkles.
She had been eighteen, and he twenty, and he had been in love. Oh, so completely in love, that the moon was his heart and the stars were his blood. It had felt as if he twinkled brighter than the night sky when she held him in her arms, her strong yet fragile arms, that were covered in freckles after years of tanning in the sun.
She wasn't here today, of course. She had died 3 years ago, on this exact day. And now, for Peter, the 31st of December was a day of haunting and engulfing yourself in the sweet, sweet haven of numbness. He didn't want to celebrate - hell, even if he did, there was no one for him to celebrate with. The only person he’d ever loved - gone. Dead. Vanished to a place she'd never come back from.
Ha. Happy New Year...
Peter downed another mouthful of vodka, cringing at the taste. He savoured the feeling of the liquid pouring down his throat. He glanced at the faded picture frame sitting in the corner of the dull room – dust had gathered upon the glass. But only a glance, because more than that would remind him that her name had died with her.
Peter wiped his face over with one hand, gulping down more vodka. Ever since he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he had begun to change slowly before his eyes. There were days when he woke up and rolled over to stroke the hair out of her face, only to end up screaming in panic. It was like losing her all over again, every morning. Just like clockwork.
Now that he was at mid stage, he realised that maybe he wouldn't have his anchor much longer. The rope connecting him and keeping him in place was rotting away with time, as the disease slowly took over his mind and soul. It ate away at him, so that he couldn't remember her name. What her favourite colour was. What she had wanted to call their first born child before it had died inside her...
"Bloody hell!" He cried out suddenly, standing up and throwing the bottle to the ground. The glass smashed across the floor, a puddle of sour acid dripping through the cracks in the floorboards. Shards of crystal glittered under the dim glow of the lamp above him. It flickered casually, a reminder that Peter had forgotten to pay the overdue electricity bill sitting on the dusty kitchen bench.
The liquid seeping across the surface beneath his feet flashed images across his mind. Of the car crash, and her lifeless body strapped into the seat, a trail of blood trickling from her nose. Of the red-brown stickiness that seeped across the musty car seat and then into his lungs. She'd been happy, before she died. Full of spirit and hope and life.
They'd been coming home from a drive, looking at the lights and the parties, when a drunk driver hit them. One of the few memories Peter still had was of the blue Ford swerving across the double lines and smashing into their vehicle. The glass of the windshield wasn’t the only thing that shattered that day – his heart did, too. She was hit - they said she died instantly. Peter’s courage did too, with her.
Chuckling darkly, Peter got up and limped to the cabinet across the room, grabbing a fresh bottle of vodka and opening it in a single go. He raised the full bottle to his mouth, head tipping back and eyes closing, when he was interrupted by a gaggle of cheerful, excited teenagers outside his house, all roaring with laughter.
Their voices were giddy and light, counting down the seconds until the New Year would start. Peter went through this every year on the very last day. 4 years ago, he was sitting with his wife and holding her in his arms as they watched fireworks explode into the night sky. Of course, he never actually saw the fireworks – only their reflection in her eyes. For he thought she was a firework herself. A bright, vibrant spark that burned so furiously and violently until she became ash, only a puff of polluted air.
Peter was angry. Circumstances had made him cold-hearted and lonely, and he knew that in only a few months, he wouldn't have anything to keep him sane. No memories, no thoughts, no movement.
10, 9, 8...
"Bloody New Year," he mumbled to himself bitterly, "Never lets an old man rest in peace."
7, 6, 5...
New Year isn't a fresh start, Peter thought to himself. I don't have a new beginning on its way. I can't start over. It’s not new, not at all.
4, 3, 2...
For when the new year began, Peter would still have damn Alzheimer's and a dead wife and no freaking memories.
1…
No long curls, no courage, no first born child, no fireworks.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
It would have been a pleasure for Peter to immerse himself in a drunken daze on New Year's Eve.
But not even a bottle of vodka, or even two, could drown out his sorrows that night.
The Not-New Year's Eve(Montana Chugg)
Peter Darry was drunk.
However, he was not the kind of stumbling-around-blindly, implausibly-amorous and spending-more-money-than-you-have-on-shot-glasses-filled-with-laughter-and-fun drunk.
Peter was the kind of drunk to drown one's own sorrows - the kind of drunk where you pour the poison down your throat in the hopes that perhaps it will numb your blood and brain cells.
Peter was so drunk, he could feel it running in his veins.
She'd told him that she loved him. Her sweet sound and impeccable hair curled down her back. That was 57 years ago, nevertheless, when she was still full of life and her skin was smooth and free of wrinkles.
She had been eighteen, and he twenty, and he had been in love. Oh, so completely in love, that the moon was his heart and the stars were his blood. It had felt as if he twinkled brighter than the night sky when she held him in her arms, her strong yet fragile arms, that were covered in freckles after years of tanning in the sun.
She wasn't here today, of course. She had died 3 years ago, on this exact day. And now, for Peter, the 31st of December was a day of haunting and engulfing yourself in the sweet, sweet haven of numbness. He didn't want to celebrate - hell, even if he did, there was no one for him to celebrate with. The only person he’d ever loved - gone. Dead. Vanished to a place she'd never come back from.
Ha. Happy New Year...
Peter downed another mouthful of vodka, cringing at the taste. He savoured the feeling of the liquid pouring down his throat. He glanced at the faded picture frame sitting in the corner of the dull room – dust had gathered upon the glass. But only a glance, because more than that would remind him that her name had died with her.
Peter wiped his face over with one hand, gulping down more vodka. Ever since he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he had begun to change slowly before his eyes. There were days when he woke up and rolled over to stroke the hair out of her face, only to end up screaming in panic. It was like losing her all over again, every morning. Just like clockwork.
Now that he was at mid stage, he realised that maybe he wouldn't have his anchor much longer. The rope connecting him and keeping him in place was rotting away with time, as the disease slowly took over his mind and soul. It ate away at him, so that he couldn't remember her name. What her favourite colour was. What she had wanted to call their first born child before it had died inside her...
"Bloody hell!" He cried out suddenly, standing up and throwing the bottle to the ground. The glass smashed across the floor, a puddle of sour acid dripping through the cracks in the floorboards. Shards of crystal glittered under the dim glow of the lamp above him. It flickered casually, a reminder that Peter had forgotten to pay the overdue electricity bill sitting on the dusty kitchen bench.
The liquid seeping across the surface beneath his feet flashed images across his mind. Of the car crash, and her lifeless body strapped into the seat, a trail of blood trickling from her nose. Of the red-brown stickiness that seeped across the musty car seat and then into his lungs. She'd been happy, before she died. Full of spirit and hope and life.
They'd been coming home from a drive, looking at the lights and the parties, when a drunk driver hit them. One of the few memories Peter still had was of the blue Ford swerving across the double lines and smashing into their vehicle. The glass of the windshield wasn’t the only thing that shattered that day – his heart did, too. She was hit - they said she died instantly. Peter’s courage did too, with her.
Chuckling darkly, Peter got up and limped to the cabinet across the room, grabbing a fresh bottle of vodka and opening it in a single go. He raised the full bottle to his mouth, head tipping back and eyes closing, when he was interrupted by a gaggle of cheerful, excited teenagers outside his house, all roaring with laughter.
Their voices were giddy and light, counting down the seconds until the New Year would start. Peter went through this every year on the very last day. 4 years ago, he was sitting with his wife and holding her in his arms as they watched fireworks explode into the night sky. Of course, he never actually saw the fireworks – only their reflection in her eyes. For he thought she was a firework herself. A bright, vibrant spark that burned so furiously and violently until she became ash, only a puff of polluted air.
Peter was angry. Circumstances had made him cold-hearted and lonely, and he knew that in only a few months, he wouldn't have anything to keep him sane. No memories, no thoughts, no movement.
10, 9, 8...
"Bloody New Year," he mumbled to himself bitterly, "Never lets an old man rest in peace."
7, 6, 5...
New Year isn't a fresh start, Peter thought to himself. I don't have a new beginning on its way. I can't start over. It’s not new, not at all.
4, 3, 2...
For when the new year began, Peter would still have damn Alzheimer's and a dead wife and no freaking memories.
1…
No long curls, no courage, no first born child, no fireworks.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
It would have been a pleasure for Peter to immerse himself in a drunken daze on New Year's Eve.
But not even a bottle of vodka, or even two, could drown out his sorrows that night.
Lillian Kazmierczak
12/27/2022This was the saddest New Years' story. No doubt it rings true for many people. You wrote it so well that I could feel his misery as I read the story. Thank you for sharing, and Happy New Year to you and your family.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
JD
12/29/2019I know your story is only fiction, but it seems very real in its tragedy, since I know there are certainly many people in mourning for lost loves on special holidays, like New Year's, and drowning their sorrows in alcohol or drugs. The picture you painted seemed very believable, so it made me sad. Thank you for sharing your New Year's story on Storystar, Montana, and congratulations on being selected as one of the short story STARS of the week! :-)
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