Cavernous Sorrow

Half past midnight on gloomy Saturday morning; the streets of Custerton were sodden, desolate, and hushed. Gloomy as are the majority of things after a storm, and the only light emerging from the few street lights—give off more shadows then one can be comfortable around. Comfortable in a sense of security and opulence, neither will be found. Darkness gives home to the cavernous sorrow, desperation, and uncertainty that we dub the human experience. It calls out wanting residents. Akin to a dog and its master, we come. Unknowing of the seduction and addiction it provides.
The shadows on the side of Morgan’s Irish Bar, fallen to the temptations, in a hole so deep no light can reach, no happiness can prosper, a man contemplates. Drawing in the last possible hit—before there’s nothing but filter—on his cigarette.

. . .


The cold dark alley, lined with puddles, gives off an eerie—do not enter—sensation; but is the solitude in which Carl has chosen. Leaning against Morgan’s like the crutch he desperately needs; staring into the dark puddle, wishing the answers would come to him.
He exhales the smoke, watching it weaken away in front of his face. Admiring the underlying beauty that is smoke; how it dances through the air, free to shape itself into whatever it pleases. All hope is truly gone, the desire to continue, the ambition to get help…
Carl reminisces on the days, of happiness, a great marriage, a stable job; all of which are crumbling down underneath of him. To destroyed to mend. He hasn't always been an addict; gambling was introduced into his life nearly three years ago—the worst three years of his life.
The constant desire to play on, it was the adrenalin rush of his dreams. His lovely but simple, cliche, pathetic life wasn't filling the void inside of him.
The casino bright and attractive with promises of riches is the poison Carl thrives on. In his opinion a good week isn't complete without hours put in at a table, and coming home with the stench of cigarettes and failure; which He would quickly justify as a hobby. Earlier on this gloom night, Carl laid down his last five hundred—out of the remaining four grand left in his savings—and threw it down on the table. His heart beat rushing, “oh this has to be the one, I can’t loose every hand,” Carl continuously telling himself. Anything over eighteen would be godsend. As the dealer flips around the table, people are flipping tens and aces off the back. Carl’s first card comes up an eight of hearts. “OK not bad, just need ten or ace,” Carl says reassuring himself. The dealer flips up a ten—not good. Blackjack! Blackjack! All around the table, it gets to Carl. His heart beating so fast, he fears it will fly out of his chest, all noises are obsolete, every molecule of his being was on the card that was about to be flipped. The dealer makes his way to Carl, and then the flip—a seven. All hope is now gone he waves it off, like any sensible player would, and he watches the dealer flip a ten, a total of twenty, and inevitably beating his hand.
Carl slowly got up and made his way out, his stomach completely dropped. “What have I done,” the only words Carl could muster out load to himself. He couldn't go home and tell Jen what happened—it would kill her, and she would hate him even more. There has to be a way to get the money back, each time he brainstorms, he keeps coming back to the same thought; he needs to steal it. Carl now becoming extremely disgraced with himself. If only he didn't let this get out of hand; he would be home with his once loving wife, sitting on the couch enjoying a movie, or spending time with his nieces and nephew--who's parents no longer allowed them over. He didn't blame them; his house once a comforting, inviting home, is nothing but a war zone---and the couch that has been his bed for the last two years.

“Howdy!” says Vern the bald chubby bartender; coming out for a smoke break, peering into the alley trying to catch a peek of the man. Carl to profound in thought to hear him coming; jumps a little.

“Hey there Vern,” Carl says in a gloomy manner.

“Carl…is that you?”

“Yeah”

“Well are you coming in for a drink? It’s cold and miserable out here”

“Ohhh, not tonight im afraid,” says Carl; wrapping his fingers around the cold metal handle of the cheap pistol, that lied in his pocket. The pistol was old and silver, never shot personally, it was a gift from a relative; an inheritance he never understood. His mind fills with options; none however result in money—only in pain, and regret. Not believing what was about to happen, to shocked, and the constant debate in his head, has him feeling the most anxious he has ever experienced. Keeping his eyes fixed on the pavement. He couldn't bear to look Vern in the eyes.

“So what the hells so special about my alley?” says Vern. Carl doesn't respond. He hesitantly draws the gun. Nervousness spread over him like a plague. He’s known Vern for a few years, “could I really shoot Vern?” the question he’s been asking himself for the last two hours.

“What you got there?” the bartender says with a concerned look.

“I'm sorry Vern,” Carl says while drawing the pistol up. Shaking from the worry, holding it the same way he saw cops on television clutch their guns.

“WHOA what are you doing?!”

“I'm sorry….but I need all the money”

“Just put the gun down! We will talk…” says Vern slowly backing out of the dark alley.

Getting scared and anxious Carl replies “VERN just get the fucking money!” Having been to Morgan’s Bar nearly every Friday it wasn't out of the norm for Carl to drink one to many and spill is life story to Vern.

“What has gotten into you? put that gun down, what makes you think I keep money in an alley anyways!?”

Flushed with the embarrassment of not thinking his grand plan through, his anger boiling from frustration, “I'm sorry but, I need the money and I’ll be on my way…We can go in the back” Carl says with nervousness in his voice, he hated how his voice crackled like a child who's about to cry.

“You were out gambling again weren't you?” says the now concerned bartender.

“Ya”

“How much?”

“…four grand”

Vern says with a now irritated tone, “Well you certainly got yourself in a predicament, didn't ya? I can tell you one thing though; you are pointing that gun at the wrong person.”

A fire now building in side of Carl, the longer he waits the more suspicious, and more prone to being caught he becomes. He can't just leave the police would be sure to follow. The thought of prison flashes in his mind, his wife moved on to another man, and no life worth living for; he grows a serious---blank expression—similar to one you would see on a man, willing to do anything. He grasps the gun tighter, feels the grove of the trigger on his pointer finger, and pulls.
. . .

The shadows lurking in the cold dark alley of Morgan’s Bar showed no light, no hope to latch onto. Nothing, but the evil seduction and addiction Carl and far too many have found.

In the storm he went astray, his humanity dissolved,
No outlook for a better day,
Only the inner most affray; about to be resolved.
The alley of Custerton he lay.