The photograph lie centre of the table's surface. A desktop lamp sat adjacent, frowning a beam of light upon it. Jack Cross sat next to the table; eyes dancing heavy along the image, as if willing some kind of sporadic life to take shape. Why? The question swam his mind over and over again. The question, at least, no one could answer or, however, no one had answered up to this date. His glare became intense. Words fighting hard to filter from his mouth.
Nothing.
Time would never heal this pain. The gut-wrenching, soul destroying pain that accompanied this feeling: the feeling of time lost; the time he could never recapture. Memories were no longer happy. And photographs — like the one on the table — were only a mirage of time gone by ... when Jack had been happiest.
Jack slammed his fist on the table. The photo jumped minutely away from him and further into the lamp's intense beam thus ensuring the pixels' prominence. Jack bit into his knuckles, sinking his teeth deep enough to break skin. This muffled the scream which fought hard at the back of Jack's throat. Unlike the scream, the tears didn't hide. They began wetting Jack's pupils, blurring his vision. The photo submerged into a tear soaked haze.
Why?
Creaking from the chair Jack made his way to the kitchen, darkness not helping his tear drenched vision. The kitchen held painful memories. Jack thought about turning back but the bottle of Jack Daniels lived within the cupboard below the sink. It would've been easier to keep the blasted bottle within the dining room. Although this was Jack's sober reasoning. The kitchen was the last place he would ever want to enter after that night on November the fourth. But Jack had to face it on a daily basis. He had to. So he kept the bottle of Jack Daniels neatly upon the bottom shelf of the cupboard. This way he would have to face the kitchen. For this reason only: alcohol got him through the monster he called life.
Alcohol was a necessity, of course. Why? Because it helped numb the pain, fractionally. The only thing that could numb the pain eternally was, indeed, death. How many times had Jack pondered over this idea? The thought surfaced every hour of every waking day and stayed prominent within the mind until sleep set in. And sleep was hard to come by, too. One rope, one kick of the chair, one sharp snap, Jack thought to himself.
He reached the kitchen. There wasn't any need to switch the light on. Streams of white moonlight awash the tiling. Stumbling momentary, Jack found his way to the sink. He reached out and ran the cold water, cupping a generous amount, then dabbed his face: diluting the tears. No wake up call here, he told himself. He turned the cold water tap off and, kneeling down, opened the cupboard door where the Jack Daniels sat. He picked the bottle up — no need for glasses — then headed back to the dining room.
Sitting back down Jack wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. Sweat clung to the fabric of his shirt. He unscrewed the bottle's cap, lobbed it upon the table, then took a gulp. The harsh kick at the back of his throat was no longer nauseous, in fact, quite the opposite. Pleasurable. Jack Daniels had become his best friend over the two-year period since Diane's murder.
Before setting the whiskey down he closed his eyes momentary, took another swig and picked the photo of Diane up. His finger gliding gently across the pixels which formed her face. Was this a lesson in love? He asked himself. Maybe? Promises are carved out of love, he told himself as he surveyed the face of his wife in a thumb and forefinger grip. Jack remembered all the promises they had made to one another. "Till death do us part," he whispered coarsely. The promises didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. Unimportant. But what was important was seeing Diane's face whenever he closed his eyes, hearing her soft monotone singing her favourite Whitney Houston songs as if she was in the room next to him. How he wished she was here right now. They would be sat on the sofa, bottle of red, watching all her favourite soaps, laughing, chatting: loving one another. Jack smiled faintly at the thought. Another distant memory of his wife's persona. A beautiful persona, which he longed for every second of the day.
Shakily, Jack placed the Jack Daniels to his mouth and slurped some more whiskey. Was he sitting in the 'Heartbreak Hotel,' he wondered. It had been a house so full of love not so long ago, however, the heartbreak overshadowed the full intensity of the love they had once shared together as living humans. This was what scared him the most. How easy it was to have had someone taken from you: as easy as losing a penny down the side of the sofa. Too easy. Too cruel. This was life's game and Jack had struck out when the dice didn't throw six. Why would someone take such a beautiful person? Why would God let someone take his wife from him with such brutality? If she'd left, met another man ... Jack winced at the thought: at least she'd still be alive.
Jack thought back to that day in November 2006, then took another swig of whiskey. Diane had been allowed home early. Her boss had let her get off and was happy with her week's work. This had pleased Diane no end because she had arranged for a girlie night out. She got home at around 4 p.m and began unwinding by having a bath and a glass of white. Jack knew this because he'd phoned her.
Jack took check and rewound back to the telephone conversation. In contrast, he'd been having a shit day that November fourth. His own boss had been on his back, verbally kicking the shit out of him about some designs that were over-schedule. The client was a big asset to the company and Jack was 'Mr Company'. After another tongue lashing Jack had decided to phone Diane in hope that she may've enlightened his mood. He'd waited for his boss to leave his office before giving him the middle finger and reaching over the desk to pick the phone up. He'd placed the receiver to his ear, then dialled the digits to his wife's mobile phone.
"Hello," she'd answered.
"Hello, baby," Jack had replied. "How's your day?"
"Well, right now I'm sat in the bath, glass of wine in hand." A giggle had escaped her lips. "And how's yours?"
"Not as good as yours," he'd sighed, "But the thought of you in the bath without any clothes on has perked me up in more than one way."
Diane had laughed.
"How come you are home early?"
"Well, I worked hard ... now I must play hard."
"Wish I was coming out with you tonight," Jack had stated. "I could do with a night out. As it looks, I'll be in the office till all hours, working on these designs, licking everyone's arse."
Diane had sipped her wine elegantly, "That's the life of a high-flying Graphic Designer, hmm."
Jack laughed lightly. "I'd still rather be with you."
"I wish you could too but you have the wrong bits in the wrong places, my darling."
Whenever Jack felt down he'd always count on Diane to make him smile. "Are you sure, my darling?"
"They were in the right places last time I looked," she replied, then paused. "If you're lucky, I will check later."
"If I get out of this office."
"You will do."
"Yeah, to be honest it's not nice walking into an empty house so ring me when you're about an hour from home and I'll leave the office no matter what."
"That's a date, Mr Cross,"
"Oh, is it, Mrs Cross?" He'd paused not expecting an answer to the question. "Just make sure you ring."
"I will, honey ... I love you"
"I love you too, baby."
If only she'd phoned that night, Jack mused. The thought was too much. If he'd known she'd ventured home early, well, he would've been home to save her. Another gulp of Jack Daniels eased its way down Jack's throat. How was he to know she'd be leaving early? The question plagued his thoughts too often. So many thoughts whirled round his mind like children on dodgems. Only he wished they were answers, however. But answers wouldn't bring Diane back. Would they?
There was a knock on the door. Jack ignored the visitor until he realized that the caller was not going to go away. He got up and headed down the hallway for the front door.
"All right, all right, I'm coming," Jack shouted, then peered through the spy hole.
It was auntie Pat. He unbolted and opened the door.
"Thought you were never going to answer," his aunt greeted.
"And why wouldn't I answer?" Jack ushered his aunt in from the rain and closed the door behind them. "You're soaked."
"Oh, you've noticed," Pat answered mordantly. "If someone had've got to door sooner-"
Jack cut her short. "How many times do I have to tell you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?"
"About as much as I tell you to get a grip of yourself: everyday."
Jack grimaced but held his tongue.
"I'll put the kettle on. You go and sit down." She began the journey towards the kitchen. "Do you want a cuppa?"
Jack shook his head. "Nah, you're fine, auntie Pat."
Pat reached the kitchen, thumbed the light switch and flicked the kettle on. She slipped out of her mac, placing it within the sink. She paused. Bending over she checked the cupboard under the sink. She shook her head, although not in any disbelief that the whiskey bottle was not on display. She walked gently back towards the kettle and began preparing her — non alcoholic — beverage.
She looked good for her age. Stunning. Standing five-eight, Pat held an aura with her. Long, blonde locks fell short of her breast. Her clothes clung to — an almost — hourglass figure. It was hard to identify her age. She could easily be confused with women in their late thirties. In fact, Pat was fifty-two-years-old. She stirred her coffee, picked it up and went to join Jack in the living room.
She placed the mug on the table, then took the seat opposite Jack. A frown appeared — as it did whenever she visited — on her face as she surveyed the photo lying next the bottle of whiskey. All that was needed, Pat thought, was a revolver to compliment the two. Pat felt sad inside. Her only nephew was in so much pain and, Lord she'd tried, there was nothing she could do to relieve it.
Sad.
Jack shot his aunt a glance, then retrieved it. He knew what she was thinking. But she wasn't the one buried in the carnage. No one. No one understood. How could they? They couldn't. It wasn't feasible. He'd lost his soul mate, his companion, his love, the other half of him. So, yes, how could anyone understand?
"See you're not letting up on the Jack Daniels?"
Jack inhaled. "Why would I want to do that?" it was a question not intending an answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes. He slid one out, placed it to his lips and sparked it up. Blue whiffs of smoke circled above as he offered one to his auntie.
Pat accepted the cigarette on offer. "Thank you," she said warmly, looking deep within her nephew's eyes. "I really think you need to see someone about your depression ... you need to confront your demons and kick the drink. It's getting worse by the day."
"What am I supposed to do, act like nothing has happened?"
"No one is contesting that you have been through a tragedy." She took a steady pull on her cigarette, then exhaled a cloud of smoke. "But you need to take the — and I know you'll never fully recover — appropriate steps to recovery."
"I haven't got the fight left in me." His head lolled weakly. "It has been knocked out of me."
Pat could do nothing but feel sorry for her nephew, If only she could make it right, if only there was something she could do. It was a sad reality that some bastard had taken his wife and she could not comfort him as she had done whilst he grew up.
