Greg Alderan sat on his recliner, which was conveniently placed in the middle of the small living room, directly in front of his 13’’ television. The shoebox apartment, including its one bedroom, was dark and outdated, making Greg seem like a giant of sorts, taking refuge in his cave. Despite the loud sounds emanating from the dust covered speakers, Greg was fascinated by something else entirely. He found himself in a daze, unable to break the thought that was distracting him from viewing the propaganda playing on the dirty television screen. The same thought passed through Greg’s head several times a day, in turn creating even more wrinkles upon his weathered and unshaven face. How could he forget? He rubbed his head violently, making his greying, brown hair all the more messy. “How the hell can I forget your voice?”, he asked as if someone was listening.
Greg Alderan turned towards the end table situated next to his chair, reaching for the bottle of scotch. He impatiently removed the cap and chugged what was left in the rather large, clear phial. Tears started to form around his dark, blue eyes and run down his cheeks soaking the collar of his shirt. Between the liquor and the new wave of emotion that hit him like a ton of bricks, Greg’s globular face turned red and luminescent. Perhaps if someone was there, they could even hint as to how the Irish in Greg showed through at this exact moment, revealing his cultural identity to the world. “They all treated ya like a virus after it was all said and done!”, he screamed to no one in particular. “Took it upon themselves to erase ya!”, he roared with a brogue. Greg slowly raised himself from the recliner and haphazardly stumbled to the kitchen and opened one of the drawers.
This drawer was not like any other, for all the other drawers held things such as cutlery or screwdrivers. This drawer, although equally drab and decrepit like the others, contained a stuffed rabbit that was stained with several mysterious colors and ripped along the seam. Along with the soft toy, was a single picture of a small boy who appeared to be around ten. Mr. Alderan picked the picture up like it was a wounded creature, gently rubbing the image on the paper. “If only I was there to say goodbye.”, his voice became a whisper. In a drunken state, Greg stumbled back and slipped on the end of his robe that was dragging on the dusty, stain covered ground. He fell hard onto the floor and passed out, numb from the alcohol.
He awoke with a sudden jolt and saw that he was no longer in his aphotic apartment. He felt rough earth under him and he could smell fresh cut grass. In the background he heard heavy laughter, not too far off from where he was. When he sat up right, he saw a boy playing in the weeds, his overalls now green from the time he spent on nature’s carpet. The boy turned around, facing in Greg Alderan’s direction. At that moment, a shock of confusion and yet, familiarity struck Greg. His son now stood, mouth open, equally shocked at the sight of what seemed to be his father, but not entirely so.
“Sammy?”, Greg asked in utter confusion. The boy stared blankly at his father, unable to break the silence that now seemed to distance them further. The dry, hard earth below Greg started to change, with mud replacing the ground where he sat. “I’m sorry son, I should have been there!”, Greg cried out. The mud continued to pull Greg Alderan farther down, enveloping his legs, eating him whole. His son ran to his father’s aid and desperately tried to pull him out of the ground. “Daddy, I’m losing you! I can’t help you!”, Sammy screamed with exhaustion. Greg struggled to catch his breath, but the thick muck covered his face, swallowing him, as well as the chance to see his son. The world went black and silence filled the hole.
The drunkard woke up several hours later on the floor, head throbbing and covered in sweat. It was well into day and the moon had been released of its nightly duty, as it always had been. Greg picked himself off the ground and stared at the frail being in the chipped kitchen mirror. He disliked what he saw, in fact he loathed it. The words of his expired son echoed in his ear, “Daddy I’m losing you!”. Cancer had let his boy down and now he had done so as well. With a new light in mind and a new attitude to accent it, Greg Alderan picked up the almost empty bottle on the ground and poured the remaining liquid down the drain of the sink. He watched as the liquor, as well as, his old self washed away ceremoniously down the pipes. In the distance he could hear the very laughter that greeted him where his son now played, reminding him that this life was not the end.