The Rain of Buried Memories

The Rains of Buried Memories

         It is difficult, I find, though not entirely impossible, to express that which may not be said in the company of life. In doing so, the offender is crushed by the weight of his peersâ dissent, much as Lucifer was sent from Heaven under the light of angels. I do not pretend to justify what I did, and perhaps that is what lends it weight, for though I hid in shadows and ran from noonday sun, when the time came for the deed, I ensured that it was done.
         Though memory may desert me at the moment, I recall some distant sense of cold as I drove along on that wintry road. The moon had long since set, and scattered silver rays made light upon the blushing snow. Whatever heat I had quickly vanished into the night through the cracks of my faulty windows, and though I sped along quite merrily, or so the radio would have said, my jacket was all that kept me warm and, to a certain extent, which I may no more guess than the depths of the Arctic, sane.
         For the vessel that bore me home, my car was nothing worthy of notice. Truth be told, it would look more at home among rust than in any place of stone. The metal was all a tattered brown, mud that bathed what had once been a lively shade of night. Inside, one could be excused for covering their ears upon entrance, for the sound of my motorâs discontent was made as clear as the drums of war. They clanged and dinged and roared with all the fury of man aflame. I could not, for the life of me, distinguish the pain of my car from the suffering souls of Hell.
         Aside from that, there was one object upon which I could rest, a singular bastion in that den of torment. My chair, which to the eye of a theatrical patron would seem a peeling plum, was in actuality a throne of supreme comfort. Whatever leather had once adorned it had long since worn away, but I found its skeleton more amicable than any haystack I rested upon. Its spine, though aged, was tall and proud, and I sat upon it as a king sits upon a throne, certain within all the extremity of my reign. I was set, immovable against all the pain within and without my kingdom, and just as Atlas bore the weight of the world upon wearied rock, so did I bear the weight of my car upon my chair.
         I had company as well, though they were assuredly most forgettable. Their faces are obscured in memory, washed away by frozen rain, though I admit some small echo of laughter sounds when I think back on that day. What I remember more than their gaiety, though, is the clink of bottle after bottle hitting the floor. I nearly retch at the smell of alcohol in the air, pungent and permanent as it seeps into my soul and memory. I was clear as ice, though, and sped on along my way, trying to escape that bitter smell just as much as the night.
         My friend sat beside me, though, as he always did. His face was dark, though not entirely tanned. He sang along quite merrily, I might add, with a voice of saintly practice. Gold was his crown, and he was clad in robes of gray; he sat taller than I, proud and challenging, and his chair was always better than mine.
         "O, Mother Mary! Deliver us from this woe. Long is the night, and short grows the day when we may come to know-"
         "James, would you shut up already?"
         "Oh, fuck off. I'm just trying to have a spot of fun, you know? You gotta get in the Christmas spirit, Rick. That's what everybody talks about nowadays. Santa Claus and Rudolph and all that rubbish. Lemme tell you, and this is for sure. It's codswallop to the rest of them, but all the more cheer for us!"
         He hung out the window for a moment and let his cheer spill into the night.
         "Christ, man, do you mind? I just got the damn car cleaned."
         "You're a damned liar, you are! How much did you pay the poor bum to dirty his Daily News with it?"
         "Shut up, James."
         He didn't, though. He continued to sing to the stars, rhymes rolling off from his lips and into the azure beyond. I could not understand why he insisted on making such a big fool of himself. Anyone for miles around would surely hear him and call him a drunk and other things beside. He and his countrymen weren't much welcome now that they were the ones plowing the fields, taking up jobs that had previously been saved for the modern car cleaners and window washers. James didn't care for that, though, he just wanted to sing and drink until all the cows came home from Eire. 
         Our friends behind us didn't much care for the singing. I could hear them groaning and turning as they tried to fall asleep. There wasn't much of that to be had, though. James had a voice to match his stomach: deep and unyielding.
         "-though I may have strayed in night, certainly shall I come to fight your bitter, broken hearts."
         He kept on like that while I drove. To tell the truth, I have no idea how he managed it. At the end of every line, he took another drink. By the end of our ride, he was buried in bottles up to his chest, singing something that could be called nothing other than pure shit. I got him out of that car, away from that burning sea, and left our friends behind.
         We wandered out into the night, leaving footsteps in the snow. The way was hard at first, with the snow grabbing our feet, but our bravery melted our shackles, or perhaps it was my certainty. More than once, James turned to me with a question in his eyes, then shook it out and took another step. Through trees and over hills, we made our way to a shack alone in the dancing white. It was rather pitiful, small and obscure against the titanic cliffs beyond, but a certain sense of belonging returned to me as we approached its distant shadow. I let him in quickly, before the wind got to us, and closed the door behind.
         The shack was dry, untouched by the cold. The furniture was sharp and clear compared to the endless wastes outside. Against the distant death that ever waited, I had set a flame to keep the house warm; it stood there, in a den of stone, waving true and bright. Its shades of red and orange flickered now and again, but it was a steady light, and beautiful, so when I felt my hand rise to the plastic switch beside the door, I pushed it down with shame. A silent sheen adorned the floor, made all the more bright by the fire, and I took a certain pride in how majestic I had made my pitiful shack.
         James took no notice of the flame; its beauty and meaning escaped him as he tread dirt upon the floor. He quickly took a seat and snored away. I went to the cabinet and took out a bottle. Before he got up, I filled a cup or two before him and began to drink long and deep from my captured vineyard. It tasted pure, sour, a cleansing shower to wash the dirt away, and the longer and deeper I drank, the more it coaxed me to sleep. I remember thinking, as I lay there between grapes and dreams, that darkness could not be more comforting than that bottle and my chair.