L) Double Edged Sword

Terry Milby sat at the badly scratched table; it was not quite
ten-thirty in the morning, but he had a bottle of jack and a
half-filled tumbler next to him. The top of the whiskey bottle lay on
its side three inches from his right hand. Today called for neither
water nor ice, this was celebration or oblivion and both demanded
whiskey, neat and hollow.

Taking a large draw from the glass to steady his nerves, he held down
the rising choke. Real men didn't cough and splutter, they forced
command of their enthusiastic gag reflex and controlled it. Terry did
not; his tongue came out of his mouth slightly as his cheeks filled
with an empty void and his mouth with saliva. The second slug was
easier. Emptying the glass in two swallows, he still shook as he
reached for the amber bottle and poured another generous helping. No
mere fingers, this was a whole hand that any horse tallier would be
proud of. The fierce liquid made his eyes water. It felt good. His
oesophagus was warmed and he knew that if he tried he could hum over a
five-octave range. But today he didn't want to hum or sing or
whistle.

Setting the bottle down, he picked up the paper knife. It was fashioned
into a crude sword shape with a long stiletto blade, the brass felt
cool in his palm. Although it wasn't a real blade and its purpose
merely that of opening mail, it was sharp, the end pointed and finely
brutal. With his left hand he pushed the tip of the little sword into
the index fingertip of his right. He stopped short of drawing precious
blood, but the indentation caused the circulation to cease flowing. The
crater made a white hollow, a depression deep enough to take two drops
of sweat, two drops of Jack Daniel's, two drops of blood?

His eyes already red and rheumy focused on the plain white envelope.
His life was etched between the lines of the neatly folded paper
within. The tongue that carefully licked the envelope to seal it surely
knew that it also coated his future with its spit.

Had he not lost everything dear to him when his blasted obsession took
him by the bollocks and led him into slavery? This was the reason he
got up in the morning, the same reason he couldn't sleep at night, his
passion, his love, his demon.

He sat pretty much as he did now in the very same place, with the same
threadbare elbows on the same scuffed table when Jeannie had walked out
on him. "See yer," he said to his wife of thirty years, she could just
as well have been anybody.

At first she'd been supportive, encouraging. Setting aside time for him
to indulge his little hobby, it was good for him wasn't it? She brought
him tea in china teacups and Ladies Fingers on white doilies. Until one
day in a rage he swept them off his desk. "It's not right, It's not
right." He wailed almost oblivious to the fact that she still stood
beside him tea splatters on her fresh pinny.

An hour a day quickly led to two. It became a morning, and afternoon
and night. His eyes sunk through lack of sleep and his temper
shortened. His sudden lack of personal hygiene closely coincided with
Jeannie leaving him. He didn't have time to wash or shave. Hell he had
no idea how to work a washing machine; such things were as alien to him
as the joy women experience when knitting booties for their first
Grandchild. The birth of his first Grandchild passed almost unnoticed;
he had far more important things to concern himself with. The stones
dropped from his frame and the dog was given to a concerned
neighbour.

He was a man driven by compulsion.

And then three months ago he hit what he thought was the end. He
thought it was finished, but it wasn't it was merely false bottom. A
whiskey defining moment before the real work began. And then it was
sieved through again, and again, and again.

Then it was gone and his days were empty.

He missed his wife.

He bought his Granddaughter a babygrow, but she had already outgrown
it.

He longed for his previous life. The nights where they ate at the table
watched Corrie holding hands on the settee. He wanted a dog to walk in
the sunshine.

But through it all he was waiting. Waiting for the reply, the answer,
waiting for the culmination of all these months of torment. Then she'd
be sorry. When he got the answer he'd been waiting for, longing for,
she'd be sorry she'd left him then. Went on the cusp of his success
didn't she? Yes she'd be sorry.

He picked up the envelope and raised it to his lips, inhaling deeply to
see if there was any hint of perfume from the person who had so
securely sealed his fate. He searched for a subtle aroma, citric and
fresh, apple blossom maybe with a hint of vanilla. He dreaded the harsh
perfume of the power hungry woman the musks and spices. What was she
like this Elizabeth Boothford? Was she a kindly lady, or an Amazon of
words?

Surprisingly his hands had stopped shaking as he slid the little sword
along the spine of the envelope.

Compliments:

Thank you for submitting your manuscript. After some consideration
we've decided it is not for us.

Elizabeth Boothford Publications.

The words swam before his eyes and he lowered his head into his hands
to weep, the letter and double edged paper knife lay discarded on the
table.