River Water
by Ilya Wood
As the only one without drink, my mind was clear. His, not clouded but joyful. He talked about whatever you could imagine. Beer in hand and leaning on the countertop. I spoke, but I was not part of the conversation. I was an observer. He sang of apples and minor vices, and I listened. The condensation of the cold bottle passed from my hand to his as he took another drink. Summer wind and the sound of crickets passed through the window and became a soundtrack for his speech, along with the announcer on the TV. We played games, he laughed a lot, the wind traveled in. This was not the beginning, but when he stumbled out of the creek with a wet shirt and a smile, I figured it might as well have been. I couldn't see the rocks, but I felt how they were imprinted on his skin. I couldn't see anything until we ended up in a dark, cool room. Then, I could only see the parts of the white blankets that the moon decided to show me. I could only smell alcohol and dirty water. I asked him what he thought the moon saw.
He said, "Everything.”
What an answer. Maybe that was what I feared and maybe he was right, but that night the moon only saw the folds of the blankets and nothing more. We were hidden from its eyes, deeply breathing and tracing what we saw.
We were covered, he was drinking more, and I could hear the consciousness go down his throat.
He showed me how to play a new game and how to drink until you end up drenched. He showed me how to act indifferent the next day. He showed me how to light a candle, and I showed myself how to put it out. With river water and a broken bottle.
Ilya Wood is a poet, writer, and art student with 4 years of writing experience. He specializes in gothic fiction and painting pictures through his literature.