He Drank the Last Drop, then Plummeted Into the Sea – Dead Deer

The old fashioned way. Why wait? What’s to do? Just get on with it. So many options, if only some clarity could come to the mind, then a plan might form. At this instance even the concept of a plan was out of reach.

Rain. Stop somewhere, shelter. Go for a beer. The first beer hits the back of the throat as a warm nugget of gold drops into your palm. Heavy, delightful and full of promise.

The fourth beer; by now they are slipping down without registering. One after another, count is lost. Out and the rain has cleared. Pick up half a bottle of whisky and head to the station. Train. An old seaside town and the memories flow as easily as the Scotch, both stinging on their way down.

Hurl the empty bottle into the sea. The splash unheard on the shore. A second, full-size, bottle is purchased. Stumbling and staggering up the old path to the cliffs. Oh well, old heart, have faith. A long draught of the good stuff, and certainty is reached. Soon this bottle is more air than liquid. The cliff edge beckons. Deeply drinking down the last drop. A small step forward. A rush. A cold hard shock.

He exchanged emptiness for emptiness; his vehicle for the journey was the emptiness of those bottles.

Today I wrote from 09:45 to 09:55. I was prompted by ideasĀ here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

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