M Sellars - Blood Moon

“Yeah, right. I meant Witch stuff… you know…”

“I’ve been down that road already…” I shrugged. “I guess I could go out on a limb and try Voodoo.”

“Okay. So how do ya’ do that? There some way I can help?”

“Sure. You can put the bourbon away and get me the rum instead.”

“Dammit, Row, get serious. You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, but I’ve exhausted all those other options, Ben.”

“Well crawlin’ into a bottle ain’t gonna help.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’ve said yourself that booze doesn’t fix it.”

“Yeah, right. When did I say that?”

Before he could answer, a higher pitched and softly accented voice interrupted. “Several times that I can remember, then.”

There was certainly no mistaking to whom the Celtic lilt belonged. I looked past my friend as he was turning toward the source himself and found Felicity standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. Obviously she’d been there long enough to hear at least the most recent exchange in our conversation. Her eyes were fixed on me, and she definitely didn’t look happy.

“Why didn’ju come in the back?” I asked, as much out of curiosity as to divert the conversation.

“Someone’s van is blocking the driveway, so I couldn’t drive around,” she replied then looked over to Ben. “How much has he had to drink?”

Obviously it didn’t escape her notice that my tongue was no longer in complete synch with my brain. I couldn’t honestly say that I was oblivious to that fact either, but given the analgesic effect the bourbon seemed to be having on my migraine, I didn’t really care.

Ben held his hands up in front of himself as if surrendering. “Listen, Firehair, before this get ugly, he called me. I’m innocent here…”

“Thangs a lot, Sheef,” I mumbled.

“You’re just pissed ‘cause I said somethin’ first,” he replied.

“Yeah, well whad I actually thing is pritty funny that you’re ‘fraid of ‘er.”

“ Cac capaill,” my wife almost snarled the words. “Will you two just stop? You’re both acting like a couple of little boys caught stealing from the liquor cabinet.”

“Like I said, it was his idea,” Ben quipped.

“ Damnu, don’t even go there,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.

“I’m just sayin’ he’s the one who’s snockered, not me…”

“Obviously. So stop worrying about passing blame around. I don’t doubt that he called you, but that doesn’t make you innocent either, and it definitely doesn’t explain what’s going on then.”

“I’m self medicaning,” I slurred.

“I see that,” my wife snipped. “Why? What happened?”

“Headaig,” I said.

“Is that all?”

“An’ the swans…”

“Swans?”

“Yeah, the den swans.”

As fast as I had thought the alcohol was working a few moments ago, it seemed to have shifted into high gear now. My face was actually beginning to feel numb, and for the first time since this all started, my head didn’t hurt in the least. Of course, the apparent tradeoff was the fact I was no longer able to focus my eyes or successfully convey a complete thought to anyone but myself, and even that was suspect.

Out of reflex I raised the fresh tumbler of bourbon, but before I could get it anywhere near my lips I heard Felicity yelp “stop!” followed by something else.

My brain didn’t really register the rest of the sentence, but it seemed as though Ben understood without question because he quickly snatched the glass from my hand and upended it over the sink.

I simply watched him pour the liquor down the drain, then looked at my hand, then back to the drain. For some reason I flashed on the fact that Ben had referred to me as snockered. He was correct. I was flat out drunk and I knew it. However, for some reason the word he had chosen to describe my state of inebriation now struck me as hilarious. I started to giggle and soon found that I couldn’t stop.

“Gods,” Felicity spat. “How much has he had, Ben?”

“Just one,” my friend replied, taking my arm and leading me over to the breakfast nook where he guided me into a seat. “It was stiff, yeah, but still just the one, and I’ve seen him drink a hell of a lot more without gettin’ like this.”

Even though I was almost completely unable to communicate with them, I still seemed to be able to understand what they were saying, but only if I made it a point to pay close attention, which was getting harder and harder by the second. I doubted I would remember any of this in the morning, but for now, I was convinced that I was at least following along, be it a half step or so behind.

“Something else is wrong then…” my wife muttered.

“Listen,” Ben said. “Since he’s obviously in no shape to tell ya’ I guess I’d better. He told me he did the bleedin’ thing again today.”

“Again?” she barked. “Like last night?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

“And you let him drink alcohol?”

“What am I, his goddamn babysitter? How is this my fault all of a sudden?”

She ignored the question and aimed her gaze back in my direction. “Gods, Rowan! Why didn’t you call me?”

I heard the question clearly, but even if I had been able to make my mouth work, I couldn’t answer because I was too busy passing out.

I held my head between my hands and imagined that if I stayed that way, maybe, just maybe, my brain wouldn’t burst through my temples and try to escape. The one semi-comforting thought that kept going through my head was that I had a very good imagination. Now, I just needed to remember where I put it.

I was squeezing my eyes tightly shut in a bid to keep out the unnatural glare from the overhead track lighting of the kitchen, but it still shone through with a vengeance. In truth, the level of brightness was nowhere near what my retinas seemed to believe it was, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I were sitting in a pitch-black room. I would still be overwhelmed. That was just part of the price one paid for stupidity.

“Rowan?” my wife’s voice blasted into my ears.

The last time I had chanced opening my eyes, she was sitting across the table from me at the breakfast nook, and judging from the relative direction of the sound she hadn’t moved. I was fairly certain she wasn’t speaking any louder than normal, but once again my warped perceptions were starkly contrasting with reality. To me it sounded like she was yelling directly into my ear from no more than six inches away.

“What,” I grunted, wincing at the movement necessary to form the word.

“I’m just checking,” she replied. “You seemed to be drifting off again… Why don’t you drink some more coffee? It might help.”

She had already forced me to drink her family recipe hangover remedy followed by what seemed like a gallon of water before placing the cup of java on the table and demanding I down that as well. I had taken a sip, but that was about it. I wasn’t exactly thirsty at the moment.

I carefully moved my left hand around and pressed my index finger against the center of my forehead, right between my eyes. I spoke slowly and deliberately. “Bullet. Right here. Maybe. Coffee, I really don’t know…”

“Try it anyway,” she instructed. “I’m saving the bullet for when you really screw up.”

I wasn’t really in the mood for sarcasm, even if it was a joke, but I was also in no shape to argue. Of course, there was also the fact that as far as any sort of defense was concerned, I didn’t have a leg to stand on. So, rather than complain, I simply tried to respond in kind.

“Shoot me anyway,” I said. “You have my permission.”