Sample: Red and White (2017)

Smoke drifts. The room is dark, and the curtains—heavy, velvet swaths of cloth—are drawn shut over the wide bay window. One thin, weak vein of light reaches through a gap in the curtains. It could be moonlight, or sunlight. It could be the last, flickering breaths of the dying streetlamp outside. The smoke swirls up softly through that shaft of pale silver.

The smoke comes from an ashtray, full of mostly-smoked cigarettes. Ash litters the low coffee table the ashtray rests on, litters the carpet below. A hand reaches down and takes a cigarette at random, brings it to a pair of lips that are pale, dry. Draws it down to the filter, sighs out a heavy breath of smoke.

The man lies back, letting the glowing stub drop from his fingertips to the coffee table, where it smolders dejectedly. He runs a hand across his face, lies back on the couch; cheap fabric stained and pitted with countless little burns. He looks, if anything, like the physical embodiment of a sigh. He’s limp, practically boneless, with the kind of hollowness about his features that comes from losing too much weight too fast. One arm hangs over the edge of the couch, fingertips brushing the carpet. The other hand is wrapped tight around the neck of a bottle. Gin, like his mother used to drink, in a clear, rectangular decanter. That frail shaft of light glances off one sharp corner as he brings it to his lips, finds it empty, lets it drop. One last bead of clear, shining liquid rolls off the lip, and taps down quietly onto the carpet.

The carpet itself—like the couch, like the table, like his clothes—is stained with smoke, discolored with red wine. The empty bottle clinks as it lands among others of its kind, a few scattered pills, empty glasses. He stopped drinking out of glasses at some point, to cut out the middleman. Even the brief process of finding a glass and pouring into it is too much of an interruption, cutting away just a little at the constant stream of numbness. Giving him unwanted time to think.

He reaches for another, but the cluttered coffee table holds only empty bottles now. He groans, sweeping an arm out, catching a few of them and sending them rolling off the table. They thud quietly, without the catharsis of shattering, into the pale yellow carpet.

He stands, and sways, because he hasn’t stood up for longer than he can recall. It’s been longer still since he last ate. He must have slept, at some point, but the sleep is the same as being awake by now, and he can barely tell the difference any more. He’s tired, either way. He stands there, swaying, until he remembers how to kick his way forward, creating a path through the debris, making his way into the kitchen.

The fridge is half open and empty, the sink is full of bottles. The corner is full of the broken glass he must have tried to sweep up at some point, before giving up. He rummages blindly through the cabinet against the far wall for another bottle, but finds nothing. That once-unending supply seems to have, finally, run dry. He leans on the kitchen counter, forearms hanging over the sink, head down.

After some time, it occurs to him to check the date on his phone, or the time at least, but it’s dead. The screen is cracked—it’s been that way for months, now, but he can’t be bothered to bring it somewhere and have it fixed. He sets it down on the kitchen table in a puddle of some amber, quickly evaporating liquid. The clock on the wall, at least, still works; it tells him the time is 4:30. It could be morning, could be night, he doesn’t know. He looks to the window instead. The world outside is a half-lit twilight, thick grey clouds veiling the sky above. From the way the trees shiver, wind gusting through bare branches and sparse grass, from the damp leaves decaying on the concrete outside, he thinks it might be fall. October, maybe, when the night comes fast and stays late. He can’t remember. Everything is fog, now. Smoke, drifting. He puts his head in his hands and hums something under his breath. His voice cracks just a little, weak with disuse.

His vision swims. Even the weak light through the kitchen window hurts his eyes, amplifying the headache that already whirls like a fire inside his skull. He picks up another empty bottle from the sink and grips the neck hard, like if he holds onto it it will fill back up, so he can drink it back down, over and over. But the bottle is as empty as the cupboard it came from, as the disused refrigerator in the corner, as the stripped medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

He turns, slowly, from the window. The wooden door to the basement is speaking to him from the far wall. It hangs ajar, and he can feel himself staggering towards it as though from afar, simply pushing the kitchen table out of his way as he does. He draws close without touching the handle, resting his forehead on the cool, warped wood. Every part of him wants to turn away, to shove the door shut and stumble back to his couch. To do anything but go down into the dark to face those old, fragile photographs in their old, fragile frames. But his thirst is painful, now, and the handle turns like new in his grip, and he drags his heavy feet down into the gloom.

The basement is smaller than he remembers, and dark. As expected, spiders have taken hold in the years since he abandoned the lowest floor of the house; the shadows seem to multiply in the silk-muffled corners, gossamer thread draping every other surface in pale strands.

The room itself is divided into two parts. On the far side of the room, four tall wine racks stand against the wall. Each shelf is stocked with rows of dusty bottles, which call out to him and reignite the thirst that brought him down to the cellar in the first place. When his parents were still around, this had been their great investment, built up over decades. In their absence, all he sees are a few more days of oblivion. Between him and his goal, however, lies the jumble of old furniture, photographs, and cardboard boxes that makes up the rest of the basement. He steps forward, pushing aside an old rocking chair, and sends a picture frame tumbling to the floor as he does. Instinctively, he bends to pick it up, turns it over slowly in his hands.

The focus of the picture is a pair of young men, leaning against each other and grinning at something just out of frame. He recognizes the first as himself, after a moment’s study, and the other… Elliot. He feels a tightening in his chest, shoves the picture face down onto a dresser. He shuts his eyes hard, turning back to the shelves at the other end of the room. When he opens them, the man is still there.

Did you ever love me? Elliot stands, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels the way he always did when he was upset. Really, Jeremy. Did you?

Sluggishly, his mind latches onto the most manageable piece of information. Jeremy. His name, then. He waves a hand vaguely in Elliot’s direction, opens his mouth to speak. The only sound that comes out is a hoarse croak, his throat sore from weeks of silence. He shakes his head, tries again.

“You’re—You’re not—“

The apparition seems to find this funny. No, I’m not here, am I? Everyone left, didn’t they? He steps closer, cocks his head to one side, laughs mirthlessly. And just whose fault do you think that is? Hm? He moves closer still, close enough that Jeremy should be able to feel his breath. All he feels is cold.

Elliot glares up at him silently for a moment, before turning and striding back as if propelled away from him. He picks up the discarded photograph and hurls it at the wall, where it shatters. I’ll get clean, Elliot. I’ll move on, Elliot. I can change, Elliot, I promise! Elliot wheels about to face him once again, and there are the tears of anger that Jeremy remembers. Don’t blame me for leaving. What was I supposed to do? Stay and watch you kill yourself chasing after her? Let you drag me down with you?

Jeremy starts to speak, but by the time he opens his mouth, Elliot is gone, and he is alone again.

Staggering forward, he shoves another chair aside, bruising his shin on an angled leg, breath coming hard. His gaze, unfocused as it is, is directed solely at the bottles that line the far wall. He makes it almost halfway before he feels the crunch of broken glass beneath his foot.

Slowly and inexorably, his gaze is drawn down to a second picture frame, now cracked between his bare foot and the concrete. He bends, picks up the photograph, shakes it free of broken glass. Again, he recognizes himself in the center, flanked on either side by two older figures. This time, before he even puts the photograph down again, his parents stand in his way.

Jeremy. His mother speaks, her voice flat. His father remains silent at her side, face impassive. She looks around herself, at the dark, dusty room, at the dozens of bottles lining the wall behind her. I would like to imagine that we raised you better than this. I suppose that might not be entirely true, of course. She laughs, and runs one bony hand down her face in a weary, familiar gesture.

Jeremy feels their presence in front of him as a pain in his chest, as though the very sight of their faces twists his heart into knots. He can’t bring himself to speak, doesn't know what he would even say if he could. Instead, he simply stands there, silent and staring. His father speaks next.

When Lucy died, it was like you did too. His voice is a low rumble, resonating from deep in his chest. You just… stopped. Like there was nothing left for you here. We couldn’t handle losing both of you, I suppose. Jeremy’s father lets out a rueful laugh. And you didn’t seem to care one way or another, so. We left.

Once more, the air in front of Jeremy is empty. Once more, he stumbles on, shutting out everything but the few feet between him and the bottles. He doesn’t want to see more, doesn’t want to pick up the next photograph. Still, as if possessed, he finds himself turning, taking a heavy photo album in his hands. He flips the laminated sheets to the last page, which features a single photograph. He doesn’t even have to look, this time, before she’s standing next to him, looking down at the picture over his shoulder.

Hey, kid.

He turns, steps back, lets the book drop back to the dresser. Lucy leans against the far wall, arms crossed, with that same half-hearted smile she was wearing the last time he saw her. The same torn up jeans, the same ratty sneakers. The same dark blossom of blood staining the left side of her canvas jacket.

“Hey, sis.” He says quietly. She shakes her head as she looks him over, taking in the sunken cheekbones, the bloodshot eyes. The shake in his hands.

What are you doing to yourself, little brother? She asks, not moving from her place against the wall, by the bottles. A thin blade of light angles down through a crack in the floorboards above, shining off glass and refracting through the red liquid inside. He doesn’t answer.

You can’t follow me, Jeremy. Not this time. She picks up a bottle at random, turns it over slowly in her hands. You know that, don’t you?

He shakes his head. Still, the words won’t come, trapped somewhere in his throat. No anger, no tears, no pleading. He just stands, staring. Lucy stares back, appraising him. After a long moment, she tosses the bottle to him. He catches it in hands damp with sweat, nearly drops it, and hugs it to his chest.

We both know I can’t stop you. She sighs, pulling her jacket around herself against some  invisible wind. But we both know where this leads you, little brother. She turns and walks past him, melting into the darkness of the basement without a backwards glance. It’s your call.

And then Jeremy is alone again, clutching a bottle of red, red wine in his shaking hands. He grips the neck of the bottle tight, as though if he holds on long enough, someone will come along to take it from his hands.

He loses track of time standing there, shaking, looking down at his hands. Finally, though, he loosens his white knuckled grip on the bottle. It slips from his fingers to the concrete floor, shattering into countless glittering shards and spreading a slick of red across the floor. As the wine pools at his feet, Jeremy reaches out, gripping the nearest shelf by one rail. Slowly, deliberately, he tips the whole rack forwards, letting the bottles slide out and fall in bursts of red and white to the floor below. He topples the shelf down on top of the wreckage, and moves on to the next. It hurts, bone-deep and aching, but he does it anyway, doesn’t let himself stop. Only when every last bottle has been reduced to a pile of broken glass and dripping liquid does Jeremy finally allow himself to sink, shuddering, to the floor, eyes shut tight. Some time later, he stands, and makes his slow, stumbling way back upstairs.