12-22-2008, 04:50 PM
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Another shrug, another drink. Ahren had realized long ago that he had no potential to control the world around him—he could not control his children, nor his lovers, and this absence of control gave him some sense of freedom. Letting go was the best thing he had ever done, despite the fact he clung with sick desperation to something, needed some solid footing.
“We can’t change the past,” he said, smiling in a drunken stupor. Sliding from the bar, he stumbled, caught himself, and tuned to Corona. “I want you to take the guitar.” There was no smile. His eyes for just a moment were startlingly sober. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. He reached behind the bar, fumbled with the bottles. One fell, shattering against the cold floor. Laughing at this, Ahren found the clear liquid he was looking for. “I think people forget they can change the world,” he exclaimed, alcohol thick on his breath. As he spoke, his hands were fumbling with some piece of ragged cloth, forcing it into the bottle. “It doesn’t take a lot,” he coughed, ignoring the blood that reached his hands. Shaking the bottle, he turned, struck a match, and had the cloth burning. It was a miracle that he made it to the door, stumbling the way he did. Two steps put him out in the November snow, and one more sent the bottle flying through the air. It hit a nearby car, crashing through what glass was left in the windshield, and began to burn.
Ahren laughed, standing on unsteady legs, and stared ahead at the fire. It didn’t take a lot to change the world. Matches (love?) and (hate?) gasoline.
Another shrug, another drink. Ahren had realized long ago that he had no potential to control the world around him—he could not control his children, nor his lovers, and this absence of control gave him some sense of freedom. Letting go was the best thing he had ever done, despite the fact he clung with sick desperation to something, needed some solid footing.
“We can’t change the past,” he said, smiling in a drunken stupor. Sliding from the bar, he stumbled, caught himself, and tuned to Corona. “I want you to take the guitar.” There was no smile. His eyes for just a moment were startlingly sober. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. He reached behind the bar, fumbled with the bottles. One fell, shattering against the cold floor. Laughing at this, Ahren found the clear liquid he was looking for. “I think people forget they can change the world,” he exclaimed, alcohol thick on his breath. As he spoke, his hands were fumbling with some piece of ragged cloth, forcing it into the bottle. “It doesn’t take a lot,” he coughed, ignoring the blood that reached his hands. Shaking the bottle, he turned, struck a match, and had the cloth burning. It was a miracle that he made it to the door, stumbling the way he did. Two steps put him out in the November snow, and one more sent the bottle flying through the air. It hit a nearby car, crashing through what glass was left in the windshield, and began to burn.
Ahren laughed, standing on unsteady legs, and stared ahead at the fire. It didn’t take a lot to change the world. Matches (love?) and (hate?) gasoline.