baby, i am the iliad (of course you couldn't read me) adam

Circe Murdock dies, and you decide to go on a three-day bender.

I mean, it’s not much different to any other weekend. Only this time there’s a lot more darkness hanging around and a lot less friendly faces to keep me company. It’s also the first time in about seven months I’ve been cut off at the bar, which, you know, was a pretty good run while it lasted. I’m choosing to ignore the fact that my lesson in sobriety was mostly thanks to Circe. Guess it doesn’t matter anymore, though. Don’t have to impress her now. She’s dead, yeah.

Someone tries to grab my hand, drag me towards the bonfire that’s spluttering to life. I twirl out of their clutches, very nearly stumbling over my own two left feet as they’re dragged down in the sand. Stumble out of the way of two girls skipping merrily along with hands linked, bare skin on display. Wish that were me. Wish I didn’t feel anything.

A guy’s passed out on the sand, mouth open wide with a puddle of drool forming beneath his left cheek. Wish that were me. Wish I didn’t feel anything. Nobody important ever cared about a guy losing his mind, going insane, ruining his life. And maybe if I wasn’t so hell-bent on numbing myself I’d have the sense to realise how out of place the fair-skinned, white-haired banshee staring daggers into the side of my neck is. No bottle held between loose fingers; no cigarette dangling from ash-stained teeth. These are all things that alert you to strangeness – the signs that tip you off that you’re likely dealing with an unstable, that you should run for the hills to save yourself drowning in the deep end.

But all I can think is how she looks nothing like Circe.

She doesn’t want me. The stranger, I mean, but maybe I mean Circe there too. It’s cool. I never wanted Circe, either. Until I did. Or thought I did. Fuck. Maybe I’m just a miserable unloveable loser.

My mouth makes shapes around the vibrations of my vocal cords. Don’t really know what I’m saying now either – everything comes to me underwater, buried six feet underground. Maybe that’s where I am. Maybe a part of me died with Circe. It’s so grossly dramatic. Maybe I’ll vomit. Maybe I should cut myself off. Maybe I should cut my tongue out.

“I’m not sharing, if that’s what you’re hoping for. Nooooope. I need this more than you do, trust me.” I neck one of the bottles – the one that’s almost filled to the brim, which is a real choice given that the other two bottles are both only half-full. I fling the taupe-frosted glass as far away as I can manage before crashing back down to ground zero, laid to rest on my bed of regrets.

I’m the perfect picture of health and good decisions, obviously.

The sky dances. My arms splay out at every which way, fingers of my right hand passing through the coarse grains of sand as my left hand white-knuckles the necks of the two remaining beer bottles in my grasp.

I bring one to my lips, gulp it down in two easy breaths. One bottle left now. Gonna need to find more booze soon, I don’t want to wake up yet.

“That’s too bad.” My head lolls to the side, confused about the voice in my ears, not my own. “Guess I’ll have to source my own.”

The previously-sighted girl stands – ohhh, right, forgot about her, haha – and tightrope-walks over to yet another victim of adolescence, rifling through his pocket for buried treasure. She finds success in a silver flask; as easy as taking candy from a baby.

Damn. That’s genius. Why didn’t I think of that myself?! I spend countless seconds eyeing the girl enviously as she sips the saccharine liquor, watch as she brings her hand to her lips to wipe away the residue.

Bad day? Ha. Yeah, I guess you could say that.

“Bad week, bad year, bad life.” Except it has never been a bad week, bad year, bad life. It’s always been perfectly content, very normal, excellent and shiny. And that’s just the kicker, isn’t it? Nobody even knows, nobody here realises who I am, what I’ve lost, even when it was something that wasn’t mine to lose at all. I’m just another person who entered the Justice Building a fortnight ago thinking I would be lucky enough to not experience melancholy. Look how that turned out.

For what it’s worth, I try to stay positive, happy-go-lucky. Makes me more fun to be around or something. But I can’t turn it on today. Don’t even know if I’ll be able to find it again. I don’t even try to force a smile with the stale conversation I’ve found myself in. I’ll make polite small talk for a few minutes. Finish my beer. Find someone’s body to loot for alcohol, take a page out of the ghost girl’s book and see where the journey takes me.

“Your night just getting started? You don’t look half as wasted as the rest of us.”

I’m losing my grip. Can’t keep my thoughts straight, everything is spinning out, too heavy, too fast. I know that this means it’s time to go, to scurry back into the safety of a warm bed in a warm home where I’ll never be subjected to the evils of our world. But maybe I just want to be a child of the devil for a little longer.

“Maybe you can help me catch up.”

I shrug. “Maybe I can. Doesn’t seem like you need my help finding the booze, though.”

I don’t really know what her plan is. Whether she wants to sleep with me or rob me or be a shoulder to cry on or ruin my life. Maybe all of the above. I can’t pick her – not that I’ve ever been particularly perceptive. The intoxication is definitely catching up to me now, though. If she asked to sleep with me, I’d probably say no. I think. I mean, she’s not Circe. And we weren’t exclusive. Wouldn’t be doing anything wrong by taking her home… but I don’t think I wanna. At least there’s some good to be found in the alcohol seeping into my bloodstream.

“Got a light?” She produces a joint from her pocket, a real-life magician with a never-ending arsenal of tricks up her sleeve. Of course I have a lighter. Who does she think I am? I rummage around in my pocket for the fluid-filled canister, hand it to her, taking extra care not to make direct contact with her skin for some stupid superstitious reason my brain can’t find an explanation for.

Her eyes glint dangerously in the reflected flame. Curiously, maybe, she regards my darkened mood, picking a blossoming bruise on my skin and prodding it just so. “Let me guess… girlfriend trouble?”

The bubble of warmth bursts. It’s not the right thing to say, not the right time. There may never be a right time to talk about Circe Murdock. I shake my head, lip jutting out like I’ve just eaten something sour. “Nah.” Can’t talk about her, won’t talk about her. That’s a turn-off to girls, right? Talking about your exes? But it doesn’t matter. I don’t wanna sleep with her anyway. I don’t want the company.

I don’t want to be sad, I don’t want to be happy.

The ocean roars louder than before, crashing into my eardrums tenfold. I sigh heavily as I fall into its watery embrace. “Nah, she’s nobody.” Maybe one day soon I’ll believe it.

“What about you? Got any skeletons in the closet you’re hiding from?”

I don’t know why I ask her anything about her life. I don’t care about it. There’s no vested interest in her. Maybe it’s the polite, pre-programmed small talk I’ve been brought up in the habit of. Practiced false niceties, smiling for the camera, garnering respect and acclaim in the name of a Victor’s status.

She speaks the language of a privileged kid of Four with the same trivial perils as myself. Holds the air of someone important – someone I should have known before today. Maybe I do. What was her name again? Did I even ask it? Something about an asshole ex-boyfriend. I wonder if that would have been how Circe talked about me in passing, some distant way into the future where she is still alive. We weren’t really going to make it, even if she’d managed to come home. This is what I tell myself to try and stop it hurting so much.

Her hand extends towards me, uncurls around the blunt. “Your turn.” I didn’t want to assume she’d share her contraband, but now that the barrier has been breached, I find myself desperately hungry for her poison offering. I take the joint from her, just as careful as before to not touch her, but someone misjudges the distance and our hands end up grazing each other lightly, cold touch on my clammy skin. I recoil immediately, only to reprimand myself for the knee-jerk reaction a moment later.

Pull it together! You look like a frigid moron.

The cotton-balled air hits my lungs, works its way into every last bronchiole. I don’t feel any different though, the alcohol numbing me too far to feel anything new or exciting. She looks at me expectantly as she sinks to her knees; there’s no choice but to follow her lead. Would be rude not to. But she’s still looking at me like she wants more, even as her knee bangs into the side of my leg in a could-be-an-accident-but-was-definitely-planned kind of way. Your turn. Thought she was talking about the blunt, but her eyes are hungry for more of the illustrious drama I’ve draped over my shoulders.

I chuckle slightly, a mirthless kind of noise that hurts my chest. Haven’t used those muscles in a while, I suppose.

“Well. We’re gonna need more of this if you wanna get personal.” I hold up the third and final beer bottle in my hands. Make the clever decision to down it as quick as the two that came before it, before digging the bottle deep into the sand for some unfortunate volunteer to clean up in the morning. At least they’ll get a few cents from the recycling costs.