Damon Russo

My body jolted as gravity did its work, drawing my innards and their contents sharply towards the back of my throat. I opened my eyes and sat up with a start. My breathing was heavy and my heart beat uneasy. I felt cold, my body drenched in a clammy sweat, my vision blurred by tears. I looked around, confused as I tried to focus. I was in my bedroom. There was a half empty bottle of vodka on the floor. My lips were dry and my head thumped. With thoughts that were muddled and confused, I tried to make sense of things.

It had been a nightmare. Then I remembered, not entirely and my tears returned.

They were not purely selfish. They were not just for me as my thoughts had turned to our mum. As I licked the salty droplets that had arrived at my dry and broken lips the grief mutated into a frustrated rage. I stood up, grabbing the bottle off the floor and launched it against the bedroom wall. With glass shattering predictability, it fragmented into hundreds of pieces, releasing its contents and leaving a colorless damp scar on the white-washed wall. The stench of ethanol struck my nose hard, making me flinch. And then, in that intense moment of furious futility the mist lifted just enough. Crunching broken glass under foot, I grabbed my coat.

It was time for a confrontation.

Dan Lee

The Priest: An End of Souls Short Story

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