By Emma Spainhower
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The
lights were too bright, the voices were too loud and yet the taste of the
whiskey wasn’t strong enough to drown it all out like it usually did. The
lump in his throat felt even worse—almost choking him as he clung to his
flip phone, hoping, praying to hear her voice on the other end. He
couldn’t remember pressing any of the buttons, but well, it was habit, he supposed.
“It’s
a little quieter outside, man,” a voice called out, somehow clearer than the
rest. A person came into his vision, sitting on the barstool beside him. “It’s
not exactly gonna be clear in here, ya know?” He waved his hand, pointing to
all the commotion behind him. A silence grew between the two strangers as the
older man slowly closed his flip phone, setting it down next to the drink. The
younger man glanced at this, then offered a smile, “I take it you’ve been here
a while,” his eyes trailed to the other empty glasses beside the
phone.
“You talk too
much.”
“Maybe
you don’t talk enough,” the man beside him retorted. “Who comes here, of
all places, to call someone?” He raised his glass, bringing it to his lips
before laughing. “What were you gonna do if someone did answer that
call? Sit there and not say anything?” He stared at the older gentleman in
bewilderment.
He
ignored the question. “You got a name?” He lowered his glass, looking at the
younger man.
“Henry.
What’s—”
“Well,
Henry, maybe you should shut your damn mouth,” he interrupted,
swallowing more of the poison.
Henry
made a noise, taken aback by the harshness. “What’s her name?” he ended
up asking, swirling his straw in the glass. “I mean, obviously it’s
a her. It’s always a her, isn’t it? Always ladies giving us issues—” His voice
trailed off, falling flat after a bit. “Ladies. Most of us come here to find a
nice one, and well, they’re the reason we end up drinking here too.
Ironic,” he muttered, running a hand through his brown hair.
“Name’s
Peter,” the older man offered, sending Henry a short glance. An invitation
for conversation.
“Then
what’d ya do, Pete?” Henry cracked a smirk. “An old dog like you must’ve
really messed up. I mean, you’ve got a lady—or had one, given that
you’re here sitting alone.”
It was uneasy
how Henry seemed to find humor in another’s pain.
“You
oughta find someone else to harass,” Peter said, drinking from his now almost-empty
glass.
“What’d you do?
Sleep with her best friend?”
Peter shot him a
glare. “Mind your damn business, kid.”
“Oooh,
it must’ve been really bad then,” he grinned. “I bet you still love her and
want her back. That was her you were calling back then. How many times did you
try?” He cocked his head to the side, “Seven. That was your seventh time
calling?” He coughed, shaking his head. “Well that’s a bit desperate. You—I
mean. You’re awfully desperate.”
A
fist came out of seemingly nowhere, aimed directly for Henry’s face—yet it
went through it. In its place was a bunch of skin colored mist, reforming
only when Peter pulled his fist back, his eyes wide.
“What
the hell?” Peter muttered, his eyes trying to make sense of what was in front
of him.
“I’m
not really here,” came Henry’s voice behind Peter, now on the other barstool
beside him. “I mean, I am in your silly little head, of course. Not
physically.” Peter was silent, now facing Henry. “You can try to make
sense of it, but I wouldn’t. It’s too confusing for your little human brain to
comprehend.”
“What the
hell?”
Henry
rolled his eyes, “We all face our demons one day, Petey. Some sooner than
others.”
Peter
racked his brain in an attempt to figure out what the heck this guy had to do
with him. He didn’t remember anyone named Henry. It dawned on him after a
few seconds of staring at him blankly. “Jack. Jack’s brother,” the words were
almost a whisper.
Henry
beamed. “Yep, sure am. Took ya long enough,” he toyed with the paper from
the straw, pulling the knot.
“Then, why’re
you here and not him?”
Henry
looked up, letting the paper drop from his fingers. “You killed both of us that
night, Peter.” Henry was quiet for a second, then offered, “Jack’s somewhere
else. I don’t really know if he made it to the good place or what. But I’m
stuck here.” He looked around, his eyes falling over Peter after a minute
or two. “I’ve been following you for some time now.”
“Then, you
know—”
“Yep,”
Henry’s smile fell. “Ya sure do look crazy right now. Completely plastered
and shit-faced talking to yourself. No one else can see me, Pete. Only
you.”
“That doesn’t
matter. Henry—God, I’m so sorry for that night—”
Henry
offered a mischievous smile in return, “Ya know, you were driving. It
coulda been either me or Jack. It wouldn’t have made much of a difference.
We were all out of our minds drunk. And well, it would have been one of us,
anyways.” He stared at Peter for a while. “Ya know, Jack forgave ya real
quick.” He pointed to the sky, “That’s why I think he’s up there somewhere.”
“But you still
haven’t—” Peter’s voice trailed off.
“Jack
said forgiveness is the light I seek. I’m not so sure,” Henry confessed.
“Either way, it’s been damn amusing seeing you get your karma.”
“What, the
twelve years wasn’t enough?”
“Twelve
years and your girl beating your ass when she found out. Well, that was
amusing, sure,” Henry glanced at him, seeing tears in Peter’s eyes. “Okay, now
you’re starting to look fully insane. Cut that out before you get kicked
out. Call your girl again.”
“She
still hasn’t forgiven me, Henry,” Peter said quietly, toying with his flip
phone.
“Then
that makes two of us,” he retorted. He saw Peter’s face and said, “But you’ve wasted
so long already. If she’s still your girl, she’ll come around.” He looked at
the phone. “Maybe I’ll put in a good word or two. What’s so special about
the eighth call, right?” He saw Peter’s hand slowly typing the numbers
once more. He stood, walking away. Vaguely behind him, he could make out
Peter talking to someone on the other end of the call. Maybe eight was the
magic number.
About the
Author
Emma Spainhower has always dreamed of being an author. Finding inspiration in those around her, she chooses to write in order to create a different reality. Fantasy has been a huge part of her creative process throughout the years. Despite her art being very different from reality, she is able to express herself through her words and her art.