Here Again

Dishes clank around me. The murmur of conversation surrounds me. I am soaking in it. For my part, I am silent. My table is an island of silence amidst this ocean of noise.

All around me the business of the restaurant continues. People smiling, chatting, ordering, eating, drinking. I know every brick, every table, every light. I'm here every night. At least it feels like it anyway. It's just that most of those times, no, all of those times, I had a friend with me. And now I am alone. Why?

Why am I here again? It's a dream and I know it's a dream. They were always such lucid dreams. I could control them if I didn't try too hard. So why am I alone? Even here I can't have her back?

People move all around me. I watch them pass by on their way to the kitchen or bathroom or whatever. I see them all clear as day. None of them acknowledge my presence. At all.

Maybe I could change that. This is my dream. I've had control here before. Unless this is what I want. Do I want to be alone? Or is this just a sign of how I feel? I'm alone because I feel alone?

There's a... blur in the corner of my eye. I keep turning, trying to see what it is. Everyone around me is clearly visible, except this figure that continues to elude me. It's as if she's hiding from me.

I can barely see her. How do I know? It's a dream. Some things you just know. Between that and a flash of red...

This is going to be the rest of my life, isn't it? Seeing the red headed girl out of the corner of my eye but never getting to see her again?

Never is a long time.

Best Part of Waking Up...

I woke up tired the next morning. So tired and yet unable to sleep any further. I dragged myself up and stumbled back to the house.

My aunt was politely honest. “You either had a really good night or a really bad one. You look terrible.”

“Both probably.”


I slid into a chair at the kitchen table. This allowed me to prop up my head with my hands, leaning my elbows on the table. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

“If I remember correctly you take your coffee like you take your whiskey; straight.”

If this was a sarcastic comment, I let it pass by. “That is correct.” Sarcastic or not, this response got me coffee. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

Before she could get away, I continued speaking. “For everything, Aunt Linda. For letting me visit, for putting up with me being just a pill. And for the coffee. Thanks. I needed all this.”

For a moment, she just smiled at me. From my perspective, it was one of those moments when I'm not quite sure what I've done or if it was for the best or all that. I mean the smile seemed like a good thing but the silence...silence can confuse me. It gives me too much time to think about what I may have just done wrong.

“You are very welcome Patrick,” she finally said. “Very welcome indeed. I am glad to have been able to assist you in some way.” She gave me a look, nothing harsh, just checking me over. “How are you feeling?”

What a simple question and yet, under certain circumstances, it's the most difficult one to answer. I settled on “Different” as my response.

“Different good or different bad?”

“Different.”

“I suppose that's a start.”

“That it is.”

So Much to Take In

I'm not sure how long I was stuck in the loop of thoughts. I don't even remember when it stopped. Gradually I became aware of the sound of sobbing and soon discovered it was me generating this noise.

Through the tears and the mess of my sinuses I did my best to apologize to the leprechaun still before me. I believe he smiled back at me. I'm not quite sure. It was difficult to see anything at that point. “It's not a problem lad. I said you'd remember her better and you did. Once you have a good cry, you'll feel a little better. See where that takes you.”

My ability to articulate my thoughts was still a bit limited at that point. I tried to thank him but I'm not sure what it sounded like out loud.

As he left, he made sure he made one last comment. “By the way, you're out of whiskey.”

Everything...

Warmth. I remember the warmth.

I remember when we met, actually met in person, for the first time. She was on my front porch, needing help. She already trusted me.

I remember how her hair smelled when we said goodbye for the first time. Not shampoo or perfume but something different. Something I've never quite smelled anywhere else. I joked to myself that it was her sweetness radiating from her head.

I remember the pain mixed with relief on her face upon seeing me alive after she'd seen me die in another dimension. After she'd held that other me, watching that me die in her arms. But it wasn't me, it was a different me. She was without me for a day or two. I've been without her for weeks now with less closure.

I remember the look on her face that day just after that, when we were by the lake. Watery eyes, watery smile, the pain, the happiness. The day we admitted out loud to each other that we loved each other and we had to figure out what to do about it. We cried and we kissed and we held each other.

I remember it all at once. I remember it over and over again.

It's so much...

It's too much...

I...

Another Option

“I know it's not the easiest decision to make; if you need me to come back later...”

“No, not necessary. Thanks for the offer but no I don't want that. I miss her enough as it is I just don't think that'll help. Somehow I just... Anyway, don't do it.”

Another bottle of my whiskey finished up in the belly of the leprechaun. “Well lad, I think you made a good choice there. Life is for going forward, not back. But you know, having had another think, maybe there is something I can do for you.”

Immediately, he had my attention again. “Yes? That would be?”

“Maybe I can give her to you.”

I tried to make sense of this statement but failed. “I thought you said you couldn't bring her back so how can you give her to me?”

“If the answer isn't removing her memories, perhaps the answer is refreshing your memories of her.”

“Refreshing? I should remember her better?”

“Aye.”

“How will that help? I'm already losing my mind here because I can't stop... I've tried to stop... Sometimes I'd really like to stop thinking about her but I just can't. She's been in my head for so long I guess it feels wrong for her not to be there. So how would thinking about her more help me?”

He smiled. “I didn't say you'd think about her more. Just refresh the memories a bit. Clarify them if that word helps.”

I really wasn't completely sure what he meant at that point. I could feel my face twist in confusion. “Not really.”

“I can't promise you'll think about her less or more than you are now. Maybe I can help you think about her better.”

All his words danced around his meaning as far as I was concerned. I really should have expected no less from a leprechaun. Everything I read said they were tricky little fellas. He'd even admitted to it. It was late, I was still tired, and I'd been drinking. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think around him. “Think about her better,” I found myself repeating. “Better is good, right?”

“Of course it is.” The leprechaun cracked open another bottle of whiskey.

I sighed. “How do I phrase it?”

“However you like.”

“I wish you'd tell me how to phrase this 'thinking about Sarah Jean' wish properly.”

He put the bottle down. “What you want to say is 'I wish to remember my friend Sarah Jean properly'.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “I wish to remember my friend Sarah Jean properly.”

The leprechaun just grinned at me. “I never promised you more than one wish.”

I stared back at him. “What? Really?”

He laughed. “I'm just messing with you boyo.” He tapped my arm.

Huh

The idea is tempting.

A rush to recovery. No more suffering. No more nightmares. Just suddenly peace. It would be relaxing to not care anymore, just go back to working and playing and all those other abnormal things I got up to in my life. That is what I want, isn't it? To get on with my life, to not be trapped anymore by this grief? To not feel anymore?

Would that be any better? It should be but would it? Maybe I'd function better on a day to day basis but long term would I be better off barely remembering her? Would not remembering her turn me into a different Patrick? One still lingering over what Heather did to me in college? Even if the leprechaun is sincerely trying to help, there has got to be some catch to this, it can't be as simple as just that.

Can it?

Nobody Said Anything About Limits

The silence that followed was forever. To me anyway. The little fella just stared at me. Without speaking to me, he cracked open another of my bottles of whiskey and took a long gulp. When he looked at me again, it was from the corner of his eye, unable to fully look at me. “You've got the wrong fella. My magic doesn't work like that.”

“What if I wish for how to phrase the wish?”

“Lad, I'm sorry. I can't raise the dead. I could give you money and trick you out of it. I could provide you with fame and make it hollow. There are loads of ways you could find out wishes aren't all they're cracked up to be. This one's outside my ability.”

“That's not fair.” I choked on the words. Inhaling normally was beyond my abilities at that moment.
“You didn't say anything about limits on the wishes. Nobody said anything about limits.”

“I'm sorry; honestly I am.”

“It's not fair,” I repeated. “I'm cold inside.”

“You know lad, there is something I could do for you.”

Suddenly he had my full attention again. “Yes? What?”

“I dunno that you'll like it.”

“Try me.”

“I can take her away from you.”

I directed a strange look in his direction. I couldn't understand him. She's already...gone. “Huh?”

“I can take her memories from you. There'd be nothing there to make you hurt. Well, you'd have to remember her a little bit, otherwise people'd mention her and you'd be all 'who's that?' and they'd think you'd gone mad and all that. Can't have that now can we? All the detail'd be gone. You'd remember her name and what she looked like and that but none of the stuff that's breaking your heart at the moment. How about that?”

That Thing I Can Barely Think I Say

I grabbed hold of him before he could run or disappear or whatever they do when spotted. This did not go down well. There was some kicking and spitting and mostly swearing. Some really impressive swearing. “Let me go!”

“So long as I get my wishes!” I responded.

Immediately the little fella stopped kicking. “Is that all? Fine, ya can have some wishes. That's only fair for all the whiskey I've had off you.”

I set him back down. “Shall we drink on it?”

“So long as we're still drinking your whiskey, I'm fine with that.” He reclaimed the bottle he'd been drinking from before I grabbed him. “You'll have to pour your own.”

“It is my own.” I pointed out, trying to not sound bitter about it.

“All the more reason for you to drink it then,” was his response.

I splashed some whiskey into the glass I'd been using earlier that night. As the little gentleman extended his bottle, well my bottle that he was drinking from, I leaned my glass over to clink then together. “To your very good health sir,” he offered.

“And yourself.” We drank. “May I ask you a question?”

“If you feel you must,” he answered.

“Why were you drinking my whiskey?”

He laughed. “It was there. I never thought you'd notice so soon. I figured that the lady had bought a case or so and was stocking up for a time. Maybe she'd gotten a deal on it, somethin' like that. We like doing fun stuff like that. So when I checked in the next day and there was more, I figured it was my lucky day. You made yourself quite a generous host.”

“I suppose I did. I wasn't sure where it was going.”

“Well it was going to the 'no benefit to my liver' club.” He chuckled. “Why do you have all this whiskey then? Why didn't ya just leave a bottle in here and be done with that if you didn't know what was going on?”

“That thought never occurred to me.”

“Blame it on the whiskey then?”

“Yeah, that too.”

Energetically he finished off the bottle, clearly having enjoyed it. “You have picked a fine beverage here, fine beverage indeed. Now then, I suppose we should start talking about those wishes then.”

I shook. My hands quivered. To be this close, finally this close...it's almost more than I could bear. “Yes.” My voice was a croak.

“Looks like you either need more whiskey or less.” He encouraged me to pour a bit more whiskey into my glass. “Less is rarely the right answer. Drink up.”

I did. It barely burned as it flowed down my throat. I stared at the glass. I breathed deeply. I fought the shakes.

“It's not normally this complicated a process,” noted the leprechaun with some concern. “You alright?”

“I'm, I'm trying to phrase this properly,” I explained. “No monkey's paw type shenanigans.”

“Would I be up to something like that now?”

“Because...I want my Sarah Jane back.”

“Boyo, I don't do love potions and that sort of thing...”

I interrupted. “She didn't leave me. She left life. Or life left her. Ugh. I'm trying to say she's dead. How do I wish her back properly?”

Ah Ha!

Have you ever snored so loud that you wake yourself up? I just did. It is a possible side effect of whiskey drinking. I have gotten used to it.

Upon gaining control over the sounds of my sinuses, I listened. Silence. I turned over, started to relax again. That's when I heard the bottles clank.

My attention was grabbed. A charge ran through me. Adrenaline? All I know is that I suddenly felt alert and sober. Slowly, I peeked up over the boxes between me and the whiskey chest.

The lid to the chest was ajar. It was certainly more open that I recalled leaving it. I didn't see anyone in front of it or near it. Perhaps the bottles were just settling. While a logical conclusion, I still rose slowly, careful to be as quiet as I could manage as I approached the chest. At least I could prove to myself the status of the whiskey before I relaxed again.

The lid lifted with the slightest of squeaks. As it opened, a glow began to pour from the interior of the chest. Not the brightness of a light bulb but still the glow of illumination.

This glow emanated from a fungus, a mushroom tucked in the corner of the chest. I'd seen the type of thing before, from deep underground. They give off almost a blueish light.

Inside the chest was a small chap, about three times the height of the whiskey bottle from which he was slugging drinks down. He was dressed entirely in red: suit, shirt, jacket. Even his broad hat with the tall peak was red. He looked up at me and grinned. “Ah. Is this your drink then? Might I compliment you on your choice of beverages?”

A leprechaun has been drinking my whiskey! How about that?

Gotta Try Something

I have come to a conclusion regarding the matter of my whiskey. It is there when I check on it just before bed. It is gone when I check on it first thing in the morning. It seems a simple enough conclusion to reach; the whiskey disappears while I'm asleep, under cover of darkness, at night. The question that comes with that conclusion, to my mind at least, revolves around why. Why then? Is it the cover of darkness? Is it my lack of presence? Is it the night?

While I cannot remove the night, I can change my presence from 'not there' to 'there'. That may also remove the cover of darkness if I'm not careful. When troubleshooting a problem, its best to change as few of the elements as possible before retrying. That way you can be more confident about which change resolved the problem. While it may seem more logical to have the lights on in the shed overnight, I think my presence will be a bigger change. It eliminates more possibilities than just leaving the lights on all night.

I cleared a little space near the chest where I've been storing the whiskey. Not directly in front of it or on top of it or anything like that. Just nearby. Hopefully close enough where I'll be able to keep an eye on what goes on without being too obvious. Its been warm out so it should be a comfortable enough night. I've got a pillow. I've got a few blankets. I've got a book. I've got a reading light. Most importantly, I've got whiskey.

One way or another, this should be a fun night.

I Suppose That's Something

The whiskey supply has been restored. I set a different 'trap' for myself involving string around the bottles and multiple pieces of wood set up to form the letter 'X' across the tops of the bottles. It's still not terribly complicated but it should be enough to reflect more information about the information pinching my booze. That is why I have hurried to the shed this morning. I'm so curious.

I'm almost happy to see the whiskey is gone. Clearly this is a sign I've gone completely mad. That should not be a good thing. The string sits in the bottom of the wooden box, placed dead in the center and tried very delicately into a rose. At least something that looks enough like a rose for me to think that it looks like a rose. That is not a skill I'm aware that I have which would seem to mean that this skill is locked away in my brain and emerges only when my conscious mind leaves me. Or I'm being possessed. Or I didn't do it.

The wood has been carefully rearranged so that it spells out 'HI TY'. As my name is not 'TY' I'm guessing this is short for 'thank you'.

Well, at least whomever it is taking my whiskey is trying to be polite.

But Not Often

One of the main problems of the missing whiskey, despite the simple fact that its missing, is that it is distracting me from my larger goal of locating one of the little people. Of the two goals, clearly that one is more important to my overall well being and would likely reduce my concerns over the whiskey should it prove successful.

However, there is a weird trigger in my brain that does not allow me to focus my priorities properly. Certainly there can be some level of laziness or procrastination involved but sometimes it's a simple matter of giving myself too much to do. I can write out a 'to do' list, rank the items by priority or when they are due, and my brain will find a way to get me enthused about completing something that's not necessary at the moment. I'm still being productive, but not in the most efficient manner possible. Occasionally I get smart and can trick this part of my brain into doing what is critical, but its not easy.

The whiskey disappearing is a simple thing really, something I should be able to resolve reasonably quickly. That I haven't already done so is frustrating. That frustration may be the primary reason this task has become my focus. Or perhaps I know the capture of a wee folk is going to be complicated so I'm trying to work out how to accomplish that in my subconscious while I primarily think through this problem.

Occasionally I am smarter than I think.

Marks the What?

It doesn't look like anything else is missing, not that it's easy to tell. It looks like the only thing missing from the shed is my whiskey. Good choice but why just that?

I am not the Great Detective. Nor am I a good detective if you really want to be picky about it. Cigar ash and tracks in mud and broken twigs are all beyond me. If I'm good at anything it's remembering things that are generally considered trivial in nature and I can guess motivations reasonably well, at least until I'm personally involved in a situation and then I'm lost. Anyway, I'm not clever enough to see if any dust is overturned because a box was moved as part of a search or anything like that. From what my eyes tell me, the shed has not been dug through as part of an intruder's search.

It almost implies that someone walked in, collected my whiskey, and made off with it. I'm starting to worry that I did this and just don't remember doing it. That would be bad.

Had I consumed all this whiskey myself in the last couple days, I would be dead, at the very least in the hospital so that wouldn't seem to be what happened.

Had I smashed them in some sort of drunken fit of emotion, I doubt I would have cleaned up the mess this well, or at all quite probably. So at least that seems unlikely.

Had I hidden them on myself... Hmm. Not sure how to disprove that to myself. Assuming again that I would have done so in some emotional or drunken state, the only reasons I can see that would prevent me from recalling this activity, where would I moved them to? Would I have done so with enough care to leave no trace?

It's not the cost of the whiskey, although that is on my mind. It's not that its gone, as I can always get more. It's the principle of the thing. Where did it go?

Yesterday I decided that, while my search continued, it was logical to restore my missing supply. While I did not purchase enough to replace every bottle that was missing, I should have been set for a few days, long enough to uncover the disposition of the earlier wave,

You may have noticed my use of the word 'should' in the paragraph previous. There is a reason behind that word choice. This morning it's all gone again. What. The. Deuce.

I left myself a 'trap'. Nothing fancy; just a couple small pieces of wood atop the bottles. My thought was that, if I was moving these in some emotional state, the status of these pieces of wood would provide me some hint as to what was going on with me when I did it. If they were gone, I was coherent enough to think the wood belonged with the bottles and I'd take them. Or they'd just be sprawled on the bottom of the wooden chest I'm using as a hideyhole.

I didn't expect them to be crossed like an 'X'. What does that mean?

But...

“So, where is it?”

My aunt stared at me blankly. “I think you'll need to be a bit more specific than that Patrick.”

“My whiskey.”

“Wherever you left it last I imagine. I'm sorry but I haven't been keeping track of that for you as well. I'm finding its better if I don't.”

“I had a supply and it's missing. There isn't a lot of math to do here.”

“So you think I took it.”

“Unfortunately I can't think of an alternative and I'm usually very good at that game.”

She set down the pot plant she'd been moving in order to turn her attention to me. This does not bode well. “Patrick I didn't take it.”

“Then where did you hide it?”

“I didn't. I don't know where you had it.”

I didn't want to believe her. Logically this makes sense. There are two of us here, I didn't move it, so it must have been her. “Patrick, I know you've been through some... things recently and talking about those things is not part of your plan. Am I concerned with how you have been drinking? Yes. Do I think it was to a point where I needed to do something? No. Honestly.”

I wanted to be mad, at least upset. I know my aunt well enough to feel that she wasn't lying to me now.

But then what?

What is this now?

The reading was good, the reading was helpful, but the reading didn't tell me how to catch one of the little people. Might have to go talk to the neighbors again and see if there's anything in their stories that tell you how to catch one of these fellas. I don't believe that the neighbor girl would actually have caught one but, if she did, I wonder if she'd take pity on a sad old Patrick and lend him a wish. You don't know until you ask.

I pondered all these things as I wandered out to the shed. My aunt calls it a shed. I wouldn't. To me, a shed is a small structure that you can fit a lawnmower and maybe some lawn games, but not much else. My aunt's idea of a shed is something I'd call a garage; it's a larger structure used for storage. You could fit a car or two in it but she doesn't keep a car in it and that's likely the difference in terminology. I don't think she has a car in there anyway. There's a lot of stuff in the shed so perhaps there's a car amongst it all. It's not where she keeps the car she drives, if that helps. In amongst all this non-sorted stored materials is my stash of whiskey.

It's not that I've hidden this whiskey in the shed. That would be weird, possibly awkward, certainly the sign of some sort of problem. At the very least it would show I expected to have my whiskey confiscated and was planning ahead to have that not happen. If I did do that, I'm not quite sure what that would say about me. Either I'm one step ahead or very protective of my whiskey. Consciously my decision to place the bulk of my stash here was because it looked like too much to store in the house all at once. Also, getting more would involve a hint of exercise as I'd have to walk all the way over here to restock. It's not far but it does involve leaving the house and crossing the yard. Every little bit helps. Subconsciously was I hiding it? It's hard to say. My subconscious hasn't been speaking with me much of late so who knows what it's up to now.

Reasons aside, the bulk of my whiskey store is in the shed. At least that was my belief until I looked in the case. I am sure, no, I know there were loads more bottles of whiskey left in there. Now the case is empty. I may have been on a bit of a bender recently but I didn't, I couldn't, have drunk all that already. I didn't, did I? No, impossible, that's at least a dozen bottles missing. Without help, an extra liver at least, I'd be dead, genetics or not. So someone pinched my whiskey.

Really? I don't need this now. I mean, I never need this sort of thing but especially now. Who would do digging around in here and grab all this? We're out of town. It takes five minutes to walk to the neighbors, longer to stagger, and I know that for a fact. It's not likely we'd have a visitor or a prowler. Which must mean my aunt found my whiskey and hid it on me. Which is bull.

Doing What I Do Best and What I Do Best, Many People Find Boring.

“This seems more like it.” I frowned over my book just enough to see my aunt grin at me. “I mean to say that you and a book are a natural combination. What are you reading about?”

“Ireland.”

“You can experience Ireland. Go out and live it. Why read about it?”

“A minute ago you were happy I was reading.”

“Hmm. You've got me there. Carry on.”

Wait. What just happened there? I think I came out ahead on that conversation. Huh.

Now where was I?

New Thought

“Hello.”

The word pulled me from my dark thoughts. I suspect that I jumped a bit as well. It felt like I moved anyway. You pause in your walk to catch your breath and somehow that attracts the attention of a little red headed girl. She’s maybe five or six years old; I was never very good at guessing ages. She’s somewhere in that age bracket anyway. “Hi.”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Thinking.”

“What about?”

I had no interest in answering that question so I asked one of my own. “Shouldn’t you be in school today?”

Her cute freckled face furrowed in confusion. “It’s the week-end. There’s not school today.”

“Oh.” I have had no concept of time at the moment. Lack of sleep and whiskey is good for causing that. “Well, you really shouldn’t be talking to strangers.”

“Yer not a stranger. Yer Ms. Linda’s nephew.”

“Well, I’m strange anyway. You’d know that if you knew me. What are you up to today?”

“I’m looking for the little people.”

“Leprechauns? With a pot of gold?”

“They give out wishes too. My mum sez so.”

My head swam and this time it wasn’t because of the booze. This hadn’t even occurred to me. Why had this not occurred to me before! “They do? Really?”

I may have said this a little more loudly than I expected. The little girl didn’t flinch but not long after I spoke, her mum was hustling down the walk towards us. “I’m sorry but you leave her al… Oh, Mr. Thompson, it’s you.”

“Is it true that the little people give out wishes?” I was focused.

I didn’t even care that mum gave me an odd look. I’m so used to that. “Aye. That’s what my mum said and her mum before her. She said my granddad caught one and made him come across with three wishes. They are a crafty lot so granddad almost lost more than gained from the experience.”

“Still, it’s a chance. I have to take that chance.” The smile was unexpected. It scared me a little bit but I hope not her. “Thank you Mrs. McKenna. Thank you so much.”

“Anytime Mr. Thompson.” I started to stride away, purpose in my step for the first time in weeks but I couldn’t walk fast enough to miss her speak to her daughter. “Come on Sarah. Why don’t you search in the back yard for awhile.”

Please focus on the hope, not the little red headed girl. Focus on the hope. Why would the world taunt me so? Nevermind that now, we’ll do what we do best. Read up on the little people, find one, and fix it. We can fix it. We can do this!

A Walk

I walk. Literally and figuratively this keeps me from my aunt’s concerns. On the down side, it lets me think and I don’t really need to do much more of that. I’m trying to NOT think. Perhaps if I could think about something else, anything else for more than a few seconds it would help. I just can’t get past the everything.

The lawsuits are finally behind me but what a draining experience. Defending my actions while trying to rebuild my department at the same time was just miserable. Even once the criminal case was complete, the waiting for the civil case to be over and done with just ate at me.

And once that was finally over and done with, once there was a light at the end of the tunnel that didn’t seem like a train, then there was New York.

But I’m trying to not think of New York. But I can’t not think of New York.

Crap.

I'm...falling...I'm...

It’s the falling I hate the most.  The lack of control, the feeling of helplessness, and, most of all, the crash at the end. And there it is.

I pop to my feet and brush myself off. Where am I? Oh. Of course. Why did I bother to even wonder. I’m always here. Rubble. A half collapsed building. New York.

Sound thuds loudly around me. I am soaking in it like a bath. I try to run but the sound is so thick I can’t make progress through it. I move in slow motion, desperate to get to the other side of the wall. If I could just get there maybe this time it will be different. Why can’t I move? I have to move! Please let me move!

I awaken suddenly, my heartbeat pounding loudly in my ears. I gasped for air before slumping back into the bed.

My aunt bursts into my room, concern displayed all over her face. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie. I had a dream. I’ll live. Unfortunately.

“Same dream?”

I might as well be honest. “Yes.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Patrick. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. There’s nothing anybody can do. Thank you for asking.”

She nodded, looking sad and concerned as she does so. “I hope you can fall back to sleep.”

“Thank you.” Then she leaves me be.

I hope I can fall back to sleep as well. Even the whiskey doesn’t stop the dream, stop me from going back there. That place where I went to hell.

What else is there?

No wonder she was keen to get me doing ‘something’. The sun’s out. The sky is blue. The air is warm and clear. It’s a beautiful day.

I wish I were dead.

Perhaps that’s overstating it a little. It’s not like I’m considering doing myself harm, apart from my liver of course. It’s not that I really want to be dead and take my chances with whatever is next. I’ve never seen any reason why there should be an afterlife. Why should people need an incentive to be nice to each other? Because people tend to be selfish, that’s why. Even when we try to look out for each other, there’s always that side of you that’s worried about what you’ll get out of it, the good feeling you get for doing ‘what’s right’.

That good feeling can fade. Quickly.

I slug down some whiskey, trying to enjoy the burn as it travels to my stomach, to enjoy ANYTHING, and I fail. Is this it? Will this be the rest of my life? Nothing but pain and misery and whiskey? Is this how people end up like this, losing the reasons they had to live and trying to drink the pain away? It’s believable.

Every day is a fight. I fight to care. I fight to not hurt. I fight to move on. I am so tired of fighting.

This...is now...

“Shouldn’t you be doing something?”

I love vague questions, don’t you? Questions that ask nothing while attempting to ask everything. Perhaps more irritating than the question itself is the fact that I knew exactly what my aunt was trying to ask me but didn’t. As a result, I found it all too easy to be difficult. “I am doing something. Sitting is something.”

“And drinking.

“There, that’s two somethings. I’m multi-tasking.”

“It’s just… I expected you to be doing other things than sitting and drinking. You could do that at home.”

“This is true.”

“I thought you came here for a change of scenery, to take your mind off things.”

I did, so help me I did. I hoped I would be distracted somehow from the everything that’s been going on in my life. I really did. Does anyone think I want to be like this? Waking every day and hating taking breath? Hating seeing a new day rise? It’s all such a mess. And no one can help me with it.

I said none of that. I couldn't. The words choked in my throat as I thought of them. All I could manage was a quiet “Yes.”

“Maybe, maybe if you drank a little less…”

“Really? I’m in Ireland and I’m being told I’m drinking too much. That is possible? Well, now I’ve learned something new. Hey, three things at once. That truly is a skill.”

I finished my beer and made it to my feet. “Tell ya what,” I continued. “I’ll go for a walk. Is that better?”

“It’s something.”

Ha ha. I’ve got whiskey available to me outside so I can continue to multi-task.

That...was then...

Glancing back over this, I think I may have slid from explaining to complaining and that concerns me. No one like a complainer, least of all me, and if I've drawn a picture that portrays me as friendless and joyless; then I have expressed my situation inaccurately. While I have been figuratively kicked and beaten, I am not without support.

As explained, Cuthbold has had to deliver a great deal to me. While he's awkwardly Cuthbold, he's tried to be nice, never relishing the moment. When things have gotten serious in our departmental meetings, Cuthbold has defused it or shut it down as was necessary.

I've not had the time or energy to go out much. If I have the time, I won't have the energy and vice versa. Friends have called and asked to visit; often friends that don't get out much themselves. Mike has taken time from his busy work schedule to come over, watch stupid movies and worked to generally distract me, not giving me a hard time when I've fallen asleep on the couch mid-film.

Chris has sent Julia to visit me on occasion, mostly with food knowing that I don't cook for myself well even when I have the time. I've woken up to a clean house thanks to her. It's moments like that when I wonder what I've done to deserve such loyalty.

I don't want to short change anyone that's been kind to me in these regards but I also don't want to turn this into a list of names and events. I'm confident that I don't know the full extent of what people have done for me, what words of defense may have been spoken outside my presence or ideas generated to support me without my knowledge. Thank you all.

While I know I have the support of many, none have supported me as Sarah Jean has supported me. It is not in my nature to lean on others for support but she has done her best to educate me as to how this is done. Physically she is rarely here but in every other way she is never far from me. We communicate in various ways almost constantly, on the phone, in email, mental communication, or however else. Doctor Aloysius Sanders was in town last month and he delivered a note to me from her. One of the smartest men on the planet, if not the smartest, and Sarah Jean reduces him to a kid passing mushy notes in class.

So, if nothing else, Sarah Jean cares about me. I've no idea why she should do so but I appreciate it. No, that word's not good enough. I treasure her support. That sounds more accurate. She's a wonderful person and I don't see how I deserve her attention but I love her for it.