Killian
I can’t remember the last time my cottage was so clean and proper.
That’s not to say that I live in squalor or anything. My cottage—for the most part—is usually more cluttered than dirty.
But after my call with my publisher, I fixed that.
I demonstrated some initiative. I didn’t grab Ida and go for a ride. I didn’t grab a bottle of whiskey and seek some unattainable solace in the bottom of it.
In fact, I completely fucking rejected my usual trip to the pub for a pint or two.
You read that right: not even a pint or fucking two.
In other words, I acted like a proper fucking adult.
The epic cleaning session had felt like nothing less than an endless battle when it began. And truth be told, it felt that way to the fucking end.
But still, I was happy to struggle through every goddamn second of it.
The broken bulb from my knocked-over lamp got picked up first, and I took care of the spilled whiskey.
From there, I swept my floors. I dusted—which could quite possibly be the most tedious and soul-crushing task ever created—and even fucking mopped.
The dirty clothes all around my bedroom were finally put into the damned, unloved hamper.
All the empty whiskey bottles in my possession—and there were a lot of them—were rinsed out and put into a bin of some kind that I hear I’m supposed to leave outside every Tuesday.
Come on, I fucking jest. I know what a recycling bin is.
On the off chance there are any recycling fanatics from my little village reading this, all I can tell ya is that I’ll see you next recycling day.
Recycling is an important part of being a responsible adult, after all.
But the cottage wasn’t the only thing that I had cleaned up.
I shaved the week’s worth of beard I’ve grown and took a shower that lasted until the water turned cold.
I even used actual, proper mouthwash and not whiskey. I deserve a goddamn medal for that one alone.
Hell, I put on some of my nicest clothes. I’m wearing the softest black turtleneck ever made, the comfiest pair of dark jeans I own, and my brown suede suit jacket.
I look like a proper fucking adult who has his life together.
But I don’t.
I’m not even close to having my life together.
But I do at least look the part.
And that has to count for something.
Now, I’m sitting here at my desk with a pen and a pad of paper. I’m ready to jump into this new novel. I’m ready to write out this wonderful story that will have everyone buying copy after copy until there are none left to be sold.
Only that isn’t what is happening as I sit here.
The left side of my face is sitting against the palm of my hand. I’m bouncing the end of the pen against the paper in a synchronous rhythm with the water dripping in my kitchen sink.
I stare blankly out my window at the rain that has started to fall from the darkened sky.
Part of my mind is telling me to write down a reminder to have my tap looked at. The other part is thankful that I didn’t take Ida out for a ride.
Getting caught in the rain again would’ve been rather annoying.
But since a certain arrival from the past, it’s turned into a regular occurrence.
“No, Killian. Don’t even go there, boyo. Focus.”
I figure if I say the words out loud it’ll have a deeper effect.
It doesn’t.
I’d love to blame her for my writer’s block, but I know that it’s not her fault at all. She certainly hasn’t helped me get over my writer’s block though. That much I can blame on her.
Or try to.
I drop the pen onto the pad of paper and get up from my desk.
I pace around my cottage like it’s some kind of track field.
I want to sit down and write. I want to get this novel done and published.
The more I think about it, the worse it gets.
“Come on, Killian. You can do this. You’re Killian fucking Walsh. You’re one of the greats. No, the greatest. Better than Oscar Wilde or James Joyce or Bono. You can write circles around them.”
Maybe I’ve gone and finally lost it. Here I am, walking around my cottage and talking to myself like an idiot.
While sober.
I stop pacing.
I turn toward my cupboard. I know what I have hidden there.
Even without seeing it, I can hear it like a siren’s call.
It’s like the most seductive woman you’ve ever known beckoning you to lay with her—to lose yourself in her warmth and loving embrace.
I don’t even realize that I’ve given in until I’m opening the cupboard and looking at the bottle of unopened Jameson.
I reach out with hunger. My fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle as if I’m taking my lover by the hand.
I grab a glass with the other and put them both down on the counter before me.
The pale-gold nectar of the gods calls out to me.
A voice in the back of my mind speaks to me from the depths of my subconscious and tells me to give in.
I’ve gone the day without drinking a drop. I’ve been telling myself over and over that it’s just another distraction. Another complication.
I crack open the bottle.
That soft barrel char, sweet barley, and cereal smell—Lucky Charms, I think—fills my nose.
It’s as soothing as slipping into a hot bath after a long day of working in the field.
I’m about halfway to filling my glass when I stop. I can feel that lump in my throat from earlier in the morning. That ball of fucking darkness.
It’s not even the good kind that fuels your writing. Not mine, anyway.
I peer into the amber libation as it sits in the glass. It’s calm and still like the lake sitting under a full moon. It’s the opposite of my own state of being.
I feel like a storm raging over the Atlantic. Wild, uncontrollable, and without direction.
Slowly, I set the bottle down.
My hand comes to my face. My thumb and middle finger rest against my temples. My eyes are closed.
For once, I’m greeted by the black void and not the sight of her looking back at me.
What are you doing, Killian?
My hand moves from my face to push the bottle away from me.
I look at the half-filled glass, and I pour the contents down the sink.
You know an Irishman is having issues when he pours perfectly good whiskey down the fucking sink.
A clap of thunder rings overhead. A flash of lightning strikes the sky. Mother Nature is rather dramatically poetic in her timing, I’ll give her that.
I remind myself that I don’t want any complications or distractions...that I don’t want her. But if only that made it true.
I leave my kitchen for the bathroom. I run some warm water into the sink and splash it against my face.
I look up into the mirror at my freshly shaven face, and soon I’m looking myself in the eyes. Droplets of water slide down upon my flesh unhindered into the sink below to regroup with the rushing water from which they came.
“What the fuck are you doing, Killian?”
I wait for my reflection to answer. I almost wish it would so that I would know what I’m doing.
“Get your shite together, boyo.”
Still no response.
I shut off the water and grab my hand towel to pat my face dry.
I don’t want her. I don’t.
All I’m feeling is just the whiskey talking. It’s all just bullshit complications.
I lie to myself again because that’s what I always do.
I tell myself that I’m better off alone. I tell myself that I’d only end up disappointing anyone who’d be with me—not that anyone would fucking want to because I don’t fucking deserve it!
It’s how I cope.
But it’s not helping. Not anymore.
It’s not easy for me to demonstrate what a big honking deal that is.
For as long as I can remember, when I was at my lowest, angriest, saddest, or even at my most fucking disillusioned, all I had to do was call myself a fucking piece of shite that doesn’t deserve anything good.
It’s because it was comforting.
It’s what I was used to.
It was probably the first thing that was ever said to me, and it was fucking said repeatedly.
It was comforting—because I believed it.
Part of me did—a large part of me. Maybe all of me.
But right now, it’s not working. For the first time in a long fucking time, the thought does nothing for me.
I feel like I don’t have the time to wallow in how much of a piece of shite I think I am. And that’s fucking new. But I don’t even have time to consider that.
There’s only one thing I feel like I have time for, and every second I wait is a second I’m fucking wasting. It’s been most of my life so far—a lot of fucking seconds.
I can’t afford another hour, another minute...
The only reason I can afford another second is because it’ll take me a few to get over there.
I can’t just let this all come to end like before. I refuse to let the only good thing I’ve known slip through my fingers.
“Not again.”