Bourbon And Coffee
Even in this isolated cabin, where the only sound is waves crashing against the rocks, all I can hear are echoes of pain and gunfire — shots that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Flashes of the battlefield invade my vision at every waking hour.
Whispers from the stories I am creating.
The war was finished, but the noise never stopped.
Even in this isolated cabin, where the only sound is waves crashing against the rocks, all I can hear are echoes of pain and gunfire — shots that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Flashes of the battlefield invade my vision at every waking hour.
I reach for the bottle on the table beside the coffee pot; one dulled the edges, the other kept me awake — safe from the nightmares that invade my sleep.
Days blurred. I forgot to eat most days. The bourbon was easier to swallow. Outside, the sea I love so fiercely has turned gray and violent, waves breaking against the black rock like fists. I watch them through the wide window, counting the seconds between flash and thunder, pretending that control is still possible.
“A man can’t live forever,” I mutter, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud. “He can only fail at dying.”
The journals from that winter are thin: single sentences, sketches of the coastline, long trails of ink where my hand had shaken.
When the storm finally broke in spring, I stepped outside — empty-eyed but still breathing. The island had survived another season.
