At the Moment - Chapter 2

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At the Moment - Chapter 2

Since giving up drinking, Nate had felt the pull on so many occasions—more occasions than he cares to remember and certainly more than he would like to share with anyone. He has regressed, forgiven himself, and moved forward so many times it would be foolish to let anyone keep track. Recently, though, his challenges have manifested themselves through his dreams—dreams of parties, football, dinners and other events. All the most pleasurable times to drink, almost as if his subconscious is trying to lure him back to drinking by showing him the good times.

This morning, though, he dreams of that pre-waking part of the sleep cycle that is so highly accentuated by drinking. He can feel his mouth dry like cotton wool. He can feel the dull, aching pressure around his temples and the dizzy, shaking void in his head, twisting his head and stomach with every movement. It has been so long that he almost welcomes the feeling as the cycle pulls him under for another bout of sleep. His thinking is clear that this is what he needs to feel better. As he drops off, he is overcome with a disconcerted feeling of misplacement. He reaches over to feel the comforting presence of Kellie, who has stood by him through so much. The disconcerted feeling crystallises into a wave of anxiety and guilt for the drinking he cannot remember. He falls back to sleep as his hand slaps against something hard making him pull it back to himself and cradle it with his other hand.

His lonely snores fill the room as the dream returns to curate the top ten mistakes of his life in triple time. Nearly all of them, including the Boxing Day incident, take place during or after drinking. The dream spins and spirals out of control; Nate turns and shifts in bed as his subconscious toys with his emotions. Then the dream slows on a memory of him kicking a gin bottle across the room. The memory wakes him, and his confusion builds as he grapples with a distant memory that feels like it just happened. He can see the shattering bottle breaking above his bed and showering shining glass beads over his flatmate sitting on his bed.

As the cycle brings him back to the surface, he can feel the hangover again. Contemplating his imminent pain, he half-heartedly calls out to Kellie and reaches across once more. His hand hits the wall and shakes pain up through his body into the vertigo-ridden expanse of his head. The pain mixes with confusion, and as he hits the wall again, more gently this time, he cannot understand where Kellie is. He calls out her name again, louder this time, with more meaning. Suddenly, he sits bolt upright in bed and involuntarily screams her name. His vision is somewhat behind his eyes, and slowly the blurring haze clears to reveal a scene he just cannot make sense of. He stares into the gloom of the morning. His head pounding its annoyance at his sudden and quick movement. The void in his brain feels like it keeps swirling and moving as he sits. He cannot focus on a clear thought until the movement stops.

His eyes scroll up and down the M.C. Escher poster on the wall. This is the poster he had on his wall everywhere he lived from a teenager to his early twenties. The transformation between the birds and the fish feels soothing to his broken brain. But, what the fuck? He stares and smiles at the memory, realizing it must be part of the dream. He settles back to rest his head on the pillow and sleep. The next time he wakes, this weird shit will be over. He doesn’t drink anymore.

He is woken by pins and needles all across his back. He reaches over once more in the hope of finding his wife next to him. Fear grips him. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Kell?” he murmurs more in hope than expectation. As he shifts his weight, the pins and needles feel like a thousand tiny knives on the outside of his skin. Sharp pain scatters across his back with every move. Like a shifting graze. Sitting up again, he reaches behind himself as he opens his eyes. Overwhelmed by the combination of the feel of sharp coarse grit in his bed and the Escher poster still on the wall. “What the fuck?” he repeats, unsure if this is out loud, in his dream, or in his head.

“Who the fuck is Kelly?” comes a voice low next to him.

With wide eyes, Nate looks around to see his best friend Rich sitting up on a mattress by his bed. He looks bleary-eyed and confused, long black hair tangled and stuck to his face.

“Rich??” comes the only answer Nate can muster.

Rich looks at him with confusion and concern all over his face. He pushes the hair off his face. “Mate, you look like you have seen a fucking ghost! Who is Kelly? You have called out her name for most of the night.”