Quote:
The Holidays are supposed to be a time for cheer, and yet there's something strangely dismal about tonight. You're out by yourself and you pass by a building completely coated in a strange sheet of ice. When you catch your reflection, you're trapped reliving your loneliest moment. The illusion can last for as long or short a time as you like, but the hollow sensation lingers even after the memory fades. What memory did you find yourself reliving and, now that it's over, what are you going to do to shake this mood?
Freshly boozed but unsuccessful in talking his way into someone's bed, Brendan shambled out of the newest hole in the wall he had discovered, hands in his pockets, face tucked into his scarf. He was in an uncharacteristic funk that afternoon. His oldest scarf, crocheted and stormy gray and well-worn by now. His grandmother's scarf, which she had made herself in one of her many fits of needleworking. How long had it been now? Six years? Seven?
He stopped. He wasn't supposed to be thinking of her. It made no sense that he had taken the ratty old thing out and wrapped it tight enough to take in the old smell of mothballs. It made him want to gag. And yet what had he expected--for it to smell of Mamáma's house still after all these years?
Huffing a visible breath, Brendan undid the knot at his neck and slung the scarf around his shoulders, welcoming the cold sinking into his exposed skin. There was a pink blush to his cheeks that grew darker as he walked onward, snow crunching under his boots. The apartment wasn't far away, but he felt like taking a lope across town; maybe it would get rid of his somber mood when alcohol had only made him want to sink into it. In his travel he noticed a particularly ice-coated building, or rather he noticed his blurred reflection in it as he moved. Yet strangely, it didn't seem to be mimicking his actions: in fact, it seemed to be slowing down, tilting even. Brendan slowed down himself in wary curiosity until both he and his reflection were at a standstill, the former on his feet, the latter wired up to a hospital cot.
He found himself ruminating rather than running away at the odd sight. Had it really only been May of this year when they let him out? It had felt so distant in his mind to think about it. In Brendan's mind, he had only been asleep for a day. But to the rest of the world, he had been in a coma for almost 2 years after a horrible motorcycle accident nearly took his life. Yet even that revelation had been as nothing compared to the news delivered barely a month into his revival and physical therapy, the absolute crime that Mamáma had not waited for him. That she had...
Brendan's fist tightened in his pocket until it trembled. He almost considered punching the reflection, but the impulse left as quickly as it came. It was too cold to fool around, and for once he felt a p***k of loneliness. He needed to focus on not slipping and getting home. There was a family get-together he needed to get ready for in the evening. Thankfully quite a few of them were happy to pre-game and wouldn't notice if one more son and nephew looked rosy. If anything, booze was the oil that made sure the Gutierrez machine never squeaked.
He blinked, and the reflection was gone. The thoughts weren't, though. Damn it. He'd need harder stuff to get through the night, especially if anyone brought Mamáma up again. And they would. It was the holidays. Everyone was supposed to be there.
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