By Steve Carragher
Thick. Like molasses. Molasses that we used to pour over the cattle’s silage. Their winter fodder.
Procrastinate? Me? I snap back. But it’s someone muttering about their prostate.
I feel my energy dissipate. I reach into the depths of my memory and claw at that deadline. But I can’t push it further back. I have stolen or borrowed as much time as I could. I have lived carefree and oh! Coffee.
The machine screeches as the string of coffee splutters to a stop. I yank it out and scald myself. My finer motor neuron skills are now but a distant memory. I relish the sting and the momentary clarity it brings. I slurp. Around me, the lights are blinding forcing me to squint (don’t sleep!) as I lift my head back, my eyes to the ceiling, emptying the contents of this large cup and its negligible contents into my throat. It burns. All the way down.
Emptying the contents of my…have I said this already? It feels vaguely familiar. Déjà vu.
Dropping the paper cup into the bin with a satisfying plop, I begin to think of other things that go plop. I listen attentively to the gurgling in my stomach and I promise myself that I will forego coffee if only I can get through today and tonight. I will at least reduce my consumption.
“Hang in there.” I pat my belly. If I hadn’t already shredded my bowels…
But then I wonder, how long have I been out here in these corridors? I peek into the bin and count the empty cups.
“They can’t all be mine?” I hear myself say but it comes out in what I imagine to be the opposite of slurred speech. “Mine? Mine?” I hear the high-pitched shriek ricochet around my empty head.
I quickly glance around, there are bodies, moving. But I can only make out one sallow sunken skull. My own.
“Alright.” I rally myself. “One more charge. The night is young. This is it. And then I will sleep like a baby. Babies sleep, don’t they? Fatherhood can’t be so hard.”
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Born and raised in Ireland. Resident in Austria. Frequently in Bavaria. Carragher enjoys writing stories and poetry.