The Pipe and the Whiskey
By: Svetlana Smith
Tags: Short Story, Suicide, Abuse

Photo by Josh Rocklage on Unsplash

John had always smoked to cope with his anxiety. He enjoyed the whole ritual around it which gave him something to do with his hands when he got nervous, cleaning his pipe until it was glossy and smooth.

The pipe cleaners, which his niece used to steal to make dolls from, were reassuring in his pocket, but the smoking ban had hit him hard. Even pulling the pipe out to clean it in pubs was frowned on these days and he found himself drinking too fast to compensate. Getting sloppy with his words, messy, dribbling.

He’d wake up the next day deeply ashamed, crushing down the feelings along with the painkillers as flash-backs of other people’s aghast faces trailed in front of his mind, and would spend the afternoon texting apologies until that became just another part of the hangover.

Gradually he stopped going out as much, too crippled with dread at how his behaviour would shame him this time. His social life fell away, people weren’t so interested in coming to visit him at home. He couldn’t blame them; he was a little isolated. Even tempting them with food and the offer of the spare room for the night so everyone could drink only worked so often.

But alone the television didn’t stop his mind, which raced over the top of the soap operas, the news, and the dramas which just made him weepy with embarrassing self-pity. Why did everyone else get a happy ending, why not him?

He’d thought it would all pass, that he’d just meet someone who’d see through the ticks, the curiosities of him. Get past the stilted conversation and the inability to open up and love him for himself. But they all got bored after a few weeks, walking away complaining that he was cold. That he didn’t make them feel cared for.

How could he explain that when they touched him it reminded him of his nightmares? How could he get them to understand that he wanted to let them get close, but that he was afraid that if he opened up and let them see his soul, they’d realise how dirty he was. How filthy and soiled and ruined.

He took his pipe out of his pocket and set about cleaning it methodically. He couldn’t see a way out any more. He’d never been able to escape it, the lingering horrors which tracked through his dreams. Menacing figures, looming shadows, stalking him down the corridors of the family home.

He tipped the last of the whiskey into his glass, hand far from steady now. He’d tried to tell Sally, but she’d misunderstood. Started talking about how lovely their dad was, how he’d scared her too sometimes, but he always made it OK.

Well he did for Sally didn’t he, but not for anyone else.

It was his own fault, there was something about him which made him impossible to love, he knew that. And it wasn’t going to change was it. Ever. He’d tried and tried, the humiliating dates, the set ups with friends of friends, strangers in pubs looking bored and never calling again.

He picked up his gleaming pipe and wandered into the kitchen, knocking the top off the calor gas bottle which fed the portable heater, he listened to the gas hissing out.

If this was the last moment, would he regret it? It would look like a drunken accident wouldn’t it, Sally would be spared the guilt of wondering if she could have done more.

He thought about how much it would hurt when he sparked up his pipe. Would he feel it? Would it knock him out? It probably wouldn’t hurt for long.

If only someone would phone, would drop by, would prove to him somehow that he could be saved. He’d always wanted children. Maybe he still could? Maybe he’d just not tried hard enough?

The voices which trailed around his head rose up again, he was useless, weak, he couldn’t even do this could he, coward, filthy, disgusting, on and on and on.

Then, somewhere out of the mess, Sally’s voice, that time she phoned him from college, drunk, and had told him that she’d only survived it all because of him. That she’d tried to kill herself and it was only thinking of him which had made her run to the loo and throw the pills back up again.

He started to shake and reaching out he grabbed the enormous canister and tried to carry it towards the door. If he dropped it on the flagstones, one spark, the explosion would rip him and his whole cottage to shreds. Somehow, with aching muscles, teeth cracking with the strain, he managed to hurl it, still hissing, on to the back lawn, before collapsing beside it, howling at the sky, screaming over and over in wordless misery.

He could do it. Maybe next time. Maybe things would change. Maybe next time he’d die, or maybe things would change. Something had to after all.

License: CC BY-NC-ND 4.0