A Christmas Alone (not memoir)

Yesterday when Max’s card came, I genuinely thought I was going to lose control of my emotions after three years of keeping them bottled up inside, safe where no one could access them. Tears blinded my vision and I wanted to scream and keep on screaming. I wanted to shove soil down my throat and choke on it or lie on the ground and shout like a nutter.

I hurried out to the store and purchased a bottle of whisky, nearly drinking it in one of the concrete shelters on the seafront for numbness sake, alone in the freezing cold with my memories of better things for company. But instead I decided to wait twenty-four hours for a better occasion - like now. Today, I intend to down the lot neat. Neat, not a drop of coke or lemonade or anything else. It’s a little Christmas present from me to me, and I’ll finish it all today. Definitely.  

I start on the stuff when I’ve finished my lunch, pouring the liquid into a glass. At first, I drink slowly, enjoying each drop, the fine texture on my tongue, the tingling warmth against the insides of my cheeks, the slow ripples of headiness that wash over me, helping me relax.

Seconds tick by.

The glow wears off, replaced by a feeling of emptiness. I can’t cope with the quietness that is everywhere, the knowledge that others are enjoying Christmas Day with their families whilst I’m stuck in this isolated north east village, listening to the wind and rain outside. Inside, the silence resonates through Dosser’s House, if that’s possible, and the day is bitterly cold to match.

The afternoon gets darker. I turn on the light, knowing that many families will have finished their Christmas lunches by now. The thought stabs at me, reminding me of a life passing by, going nowhere.

Tomorrow rhymes with sorrow, my nan once said. And she’s right about that. When I wake up in the morning, nothing will have changed.