FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #7

            She's a local. She can be found here every night, every day of the week, and every weekend too. Everyone who works here has seen her come in and out, out and in, and in and out. It’s a routine familiar to everyone.  It’s as if she is sleepwalking her way through life, but we sad sappy suckers are too scared to wake her up.
            I remember the first night that she walked in through those doors; it was her 21^st birthday. Sure, she was with a crowd of her friends, all praising and hoopla-ing her famed day of birth, but all of those friends would disappear as the days and months and years evaporated into the past.
            Sometimes, I feel like I am to blame for everything that has happened to her. I know that my claims of self-degradation wouldn’t be supported in a court of law, but I still bear the weight of that guilt. The Supreme Court would not agree with me, but I was my own judge-jury-and executioner. After all, it was I who served her that first drink.
            I remember the moment she walked up to the bar, and ordered that drink. She started out hard, with a shot of vodka. Her big chocolate eyes were wide with anticipation; I flashed her a wink and I slid her the drink. Her hair swished and swayed as she tipped that head full of luscious black hair backwards, and threw the drink down her throat. Her friends cheered and roared while she drank it down, and as she coughed and sputtered afterwards.
            “Another barkeep! Another!”
            They paid me, so I served them all, including her. They drank, they partied, and I watched as those brown eyes grew glossier and glossier. They were having a good time though, so I did nothing to stop it; I did nothing to stop her. What right did I have to do so? They paid for the drinks, and it was my job. I did nothing to stop her. I did nothing. After drinks upon drinks upon drinks, she and her group of friends finally left. I was left to keep on serving those who came in, but as a plethora of different people arrived, I couldn’t get her face out of my head.
            It was a month later when I saw her next. In only a matter of 30 days, I could already see the change in her eyes. She came in with another group of friends, but they were altogether different. So was she. Her clothes were darker shades, and more shear. She wore a short black skirt, and the color matched the circles under her eyes.
            They were a brooding group, at the bar for one reason, and one reason only; to get drunk. They ordered an array of hard liquor, and threw the drinks back. Once more, I did nothing to stop her. They laughed and joked and enjoyed their time, and I watched her as she drank more and more; no one made her, but she still did. There was no one cheering her on, yet she still gulped down each shot. She drank and drank and drank some more.
            As the nighttime hours were whittled away, her friends all seemed to get their share of drinks in, and then they left. One by one, they all dropped like flies. They buzzed around, but ultimately left; except her. She kept on drinking, and she was paying, so nothing could be done.
            She sat at a table in the back of the bar, away from the hustle and bustle of everyone else. Perhaps she was ashamed of being seen, or maybe she liked the peace; I would never know. I would never understand why she did what she did. I could question her time and time again, but I would never get an answer. It was closing time, and as usual, I went to help her to her feet, and guide her outside.
            “Another long night?”
            “Something like that.”
            When I saw her in that state, it almost brought me to tears. Her once bright eyes were now cloudy and fatigued. It tore me up inside, and it wouldn’t get any better. From that night on, she would come in every single night, and sit at that table in the back of the bar. And every night, I would close up, and help her to the street.
            That was the routine. That was the way it was. The days and nights would come and go, as would she. She lived a regimented bar-life of drinking and solitude, and I watched every minute of it. I saw her continue to grow up, although not as she should have. She was living for the alcohol, and for the drugs. She was supposed to live for so much more. I couldn’t have changed what happened though. The past was too far gone to fix.
            As each day passed, her condition worsened. She was an old red Radio Flyer wagon traveling downhill. She had no breaks, and none of us could stop her. She was out of control, spiraling to unknown depths, and none of us could stop her. No matter what, I was going to try.
            She had spent another night of drinking at her table in the back, but it was closing time. I motioned at everyone else that they were good to leave, and that I would take care of her and close up.
            “Hey Jane. How are you doing tonight?”
            She slowly tilted her head upwards at me, but it slowly looped back down.
            “I’m, umm, peachy. Aren’t you going to give me a, a drink?”
            “It’s closing time Jane. Here, let me help you up.”
            I hooked my arm in hers and helped her to her feet as she stumbled and tripped over herself. She wanted nothing to do with me. She made that apparent.
            “What the fuck do you think that you’re, you’re doing? Are you dumb or something? Get your, your goddamned hands off of me!”
            I had seen her like this before. I once faced this demonic form inside of her. It wasn’t something that I wanted to approach, nor attempt to tame, but I had to. I couldn’t let her do it to herself, not anymore.
            “Sit down, sit down Jane!”
            Even in her rogue state she managed to obey me, but glared up at me with those lost eyes.
            “What, what the fuck do you want with me?”
            “I just want to talk to you Jane. I just want to talk. We used to talk so often, do you remember? What happened to us Jane? What happened?”
            “You don’t, you don’t fucking understand! It’s your entire fault! You’re the bastard who caused all of this! You’re the fucking bastard who caused all of this!”
            “Why do you say that Jane? It wasn’t my choice. It wasn’t my fault!”
            “You’re a damned liar! Fucking liar! She left us because she didn’t love you! You did everything wrong! You, you fucked up! You ruined everything, you fucking asshole! Mom left us because, because of you! Mom left me, she left me behind, because of you!”
            I tried to fight off the tears, but I couldn’t manage. They poured down my face as I gazed into my daughter’s eyes.
            “You know something Jane; I still remember when you were a little girl. Even when you’re not in here, I think about you. I remember watching you grow up and loving every moment. You used to have this little yellow dress with a white lace fringe. God, you would wear that dress everywhere. No matter where you went, you wanted to wear it. It didn’t matter if we were going to the zoo, or church, or out to the store; you would throw off whatever clothes your mom had set out for you, and into that little yellow dress you would slip. She always complained about how often she had to wash that dress, but she did it anyway. I miss that Jane; I miss those moments more than anything.”
            She sat there unmoving, and I awaited another harsh whiplashing from her. I waited, and waited, and I waited some more. Every second echoed and boomed. Then I heard her. There wasn’t any backlash, or any aggression; she was crying.
            “Dad…I’m…I’m so sorry…”
            “It’s okay Jane. Everything will be okay.”
            As the sun rose, I held my daughter in my arms; it was a brand new day.

back to Contest #7