The bottle

The warmth of the ashes under his feet was all the evidence that remained. The evidence of his life, of his death--of the people he had once buried, long ago.

As he stood there: his bare feet smothered in black, the voices returned. They came at a whisper, one at a time. Their words muddying into an not unfamiliar, haunted chorus. He stooped as he listened, feeing a mix of relief and envy. Their voices were truly the only company he could stomach now: even if the words, and he minds that had formed them-belonged in another time.

He looked at the little, grey wisps of smoke that rose from beneath the charred wood, and traces of broken glass. In his younger years, these had been a familiar sight. He could remember with painful clarity--the chilled, winter air that had snuck into his lungs between gleeful gulps. The fire lunging wildly this way and that, as the snow fell.

That last night had been a carbon copy of the rest. The same bottles; the same fire, the same faces.

It had only taken one, silent alteration. Two minds working toward the same end.

The voices were beginning to quiet now. They would fade as quickly as they appeared, on and off. He still couldn't be sure what triggered them: whether it was his own mind calling them forth, or if there were certain external stimulus they required. Had he been a regular man, this might have been cause for alarm.

He stood slowly from the charred bed, feeling the grit of the fire between his toes. He held unto the warm, tingling sensation in his blackened hands. In all truth, he had hoped that burning the old house: that last tie to a life that hadn't truly been his in decades...however, hope hadn't been enough.

Within eyeshot--somehow standing untouched by fire, was a well. He took slow, dileberate steps toward it. The grass was silken and cool beneath his steps; rough and overgrown in places. As he reached it, the man paused.

The bucket had been cut at it's rope; the end rough and frayed. If the man had to guess, it looked like the deseprate work of a knife. A knife in hands unfamiliar. He hadn't stepped foot here in many years--and hadn't expected this house to be untouched when he returned. Still, there was something odd about this.





life before that last drink...in the end, what he hoped for was worth less than nothing.





Asonger able to

Two minds--



Done

One addition, for that night to truly be the last of it's kind.


divert