Friday, March 28, 2008

Surry

Haft (handle or a weapon or tool), Lobster, Postmaster, Scorch, Submarine

Surry’s hands were barnacles on the bottom side of a lobster box as he rubbed his newly smooth face. The alcohol sting reminded him that he could still feel something. Feeling something, just anything, was welcome even if it was pain. He rubbed himself again, over and over until the alcohol became vapor and his cheeks dried to desert blown tan. He made it. He’d actually made the long, slow challenge of surviving and couldn’t remember if he did it intentionally. He thought about thinking because every small movement took effort. Now he was deliberate with everything he did. Stop, look in the mirror, think.


Is that me? Yes. But looking back into a stranger.

He screwed the shallow, brown lid back on the bottle, set it aside, moved it to the corner of the counter and stared at it. Slid it closer to the Me in the mirror where he could catch it in his sight as he looked straight into his eyes.

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