psycosynthesis
Bluelighter
The boy sits and watches the old man, studies the wrinkles in his face and in his hands as he reaches into his pouch for a pinch of tobacco. He watches the watery eyes, deep in concentration and reflection, betraying no hint of forgetfulness or meandering nostalgia. The old man stuffs the tobacco into his pipe and lights it, sending clouds of smoke swirling in the beams of light reaching through the window. The child watches this, his trance broken by the old mans coughing and subsequent hacking and spitting. He spat into a small bin by his side and inhaled again, exhaling the smoke through his nose and mouth contentedly.
“Many people would think me mad if I told them what I’m about to tell you. They’d probably tell other folk and soon enough I’d be in some Gestapo retirement home, with some queer boy nurse trying to get his kicks outta wiping my ass. That or receiving shock therapy for what others would term my ‘delusions’ no doubt. That’s part of the reason why your dad don’t care for me much…anything he gotta say about me is far from caring. He says I was a bad father and a drunk, and that’s partly true. Yet I know it’s because I tried to tell him once, when he was a bit older than you are now. He wouldn’t have a bar of it, called me crazy and worse. I could see how it could’ve appeared the ramblings of a drunken deadbeat, hell what happened to me is the reason I started drinking so much in the first place.
I used to put away twelve beers a night, on top of Scotch, and that was a quiet one for me. I’d go on two or three day benders, practically stumbling from bar to club, then arriving home either enraged or just covered in vomit and shit. That’s why your grandmother doesn’t live with me. Don’t get me wrong, I never hit her. I would never hit a woman. I just abused her in other ways, made her feel insignificant. I’d screw around and wouldn’t try to hide it, I’d steal her money for booze, rip her clothes to shreds. I know I would’ve left in that situation…but I guess hindsight isn’t much help to me now. I’m seventy five and coughing up blood each morning, I know I’m not long for this world.”
The boy’s eyes widened and he began to speak, but was interrupted by the old man. “Don’t bother; I know my cards are close to being dealt. At least I got to see my baby grandson grow up to you huh? I’ve got to tell someone this before I go, and you’re probably the only person I know who would believe me. I’ve written this all down as well, and the location will be released to you…it’s all taken care off in my will. Just trust me that every word I say is the truth, I swear on my own fathers grave...would you shake on it?”
The old, wrinkled hand reached out and encompassed the soft, pale skin of the childs. He gripped it slightly, and his watery eyes gazed into the child’s own.
“Many people would think me mad if I told them what I’m about to tell you. They’d probably tell other folk and soon enough I’d be in some Gestapo retirement home, with some queer boy nurse trying to get his kicks outta wiping my ass. That or receiving shock therapy for what others would term my ‘delusions’ no doubt. That’s part of the reason why your dad don’t care for me much…anything he gotta say about me is far from caring. He says I was a bad father and a drunk, and that’s partly true. Yet I know it’s because I tried to tell him once, when he was a bit older than you are now. He wouldn’t have a bar of it, called me crazy and worse. I could see how it could’ve appeared the ramblings of a drunken deadbeat, hell what happened to me is the reason I started drinking so much in the first place.
I used to put away twelve beers a night, on top of Scotch, and that was a quiet one for me. I’d go on two or three day benders, practically stumbling from bar to club, then arriving home either enraged or just covered in vomit and shit. That’s why your grandmother doesn’t live with me. Don’t get me wrong, I never hit her. I would never hit a woman. I just abused her in other ways, made her feel insignificant. I’d screw around and wouldn’t try to hide it, I’d steal her money for booze, rip her clothes to shreds. I know I would’ve left in that situation…but I guess hindsight isn’t much help to me now. I’m seventy five and coughing up blood each morning, I know I’m not long for this world.”
The boy’s eyes widened and he began to speak, but was interrupted by the old man. “Don’t bother; I know my cards are close to being dealt. At least I got to see my baby grandson grow up to you huh? I’ve got to tell someone this before I go, and you’re probably the only person I know who would believe me. I’ve written this all down as well, and the location will be released to you…it’s all taken care off in my will. Just trust me that every word I say is the truth, I swear on my own fathers grave...would you shake on it?”
The old, wrinkled hand reached out and encompassed the soft, pale skin of the childs. He gripped it slightly, and his watery eyes gazed into the child’s own.
