The Burn of Scotch

Bentley ducked into the small cottage warily.  No lights were on, and the door was unlocked.  This was a safe place, a place removed from all the shit of the world.  But paranoia had always been a skill to him, to think ahead of the enemy.  Still, there was something weird about this feeling, like there was a presence to the air.

He opened the inner room, the joint kitchen and dining room, and paused.  Two men sat on the floor in the kitchen, one pale and dark haired, the other blond and long limbed.  Both slumped a little, and the dark haired man was chuckling as he tried to clink the mason jar he was drinking out of with the blond.  Shock stopped Bentley for a moment, his hands tightening on his staff.  

“What,” he began, and the dark haired man shot him a sudden look, his eyes serious.  Markus had a reputation for boozing and cruising, the sort of man you warned your family about.  There wasn’t a form of partying he wasn’t familiar with, and he was a huge asset in information gathering.  His heart was good, and his aim deadly.  Slowly, steadily, Markus rose.

“Just a minute, ‘k? I just gotta tell Bentley to take his sober ass home.”  There was a slur to Markus speaking voice, and Bentley sighed.  The younger man pushed past him into the entry room, the dark shadows of the night settling about the second drunk.  Sighing, Bentley turned to follow, glancing back at the blond.  Seams was smiling, and the thought was more of  puzzle than the whole damn scene.  He looked up to meet Markus dark eyes, and sighed again. 

“What the hell, Markus?  We have to move out in just a few hours and the two of you are stinking drunk.”  Bentley felt himself scowling and tightened his lips.

“Don’t be a tight ass, Ben, I needed to know.  Seamus has never even touched a drink in my presence, let alone let himself relax.  I’m trying to get a feel of the man.  Building trust, ya know?”  There was no sign of the slur now, and Bentley found himself staring in bewilderment.  

“You’re faking intoxication?  Is Seamus?” the older man asked, glancing back at the still slouching form on the kitchen floor.  The drunken man was leaning his head back against the cupboards, his eyelids heavy.

“Hell no.  That man has had more liquor than most frat boys down on their 21st birthday.  And still he holds himself back.  I gotta say, I have never seen such self control.”  Markus spoke with awe tinging his voice, and Bentley felt the whole bizarre situation solidifying.  Seamus kept to himself, did his job and that was it.  Not a man for small talk, but a great hand at most things destructive.  Bentley shook his graying braid, glancing back at the drunk.  And froze.  Gray-blue eyes stared at them now, blood shot and heavy.  The old man heard Markus suck in a breath noisily through his teeth as he realized the intense gaze was on them.  

Seamus calmly set the mason jar down, his eyes never leaving the doorway.  Slowly, deliberately, he got his feet under him, and pushed up the counter to a standing position.  He hesitated there, as if gauging his level of mobility before pushing off from the counter to wobble a bit before walking none to steady to the door.  When the blond haired man stood in the doorway, his eyes stared straight ahead, his eyes locked on the front door.  

“Have to,” Seamus slurred, his Irish accent clear and heavier than usual.  “Always have to.”  He started towards the bedrooms, his steps wobbling slightly to the right as he moved.

“Seamus, wait,” Markus started, then gasped as Seamus whirled on him.  

“Fuck you, Markus.”  Spittle flew as Seamus towered towards the other man, anger a force lending strength to his tightened fists.  “Fuck you and your carefree life.  Fuck you and your stupid curiosity.  There are some things that never need to see the light of day, some things that are private, damn your eyes.  And if that isn’t good enough for you, then I suggest you fuck off.  Because not everything in real life is a fucking story you can read, hear all about and pass off.  If I don’t want to talk about myself, then fucking well accept that.”  The man’s anger faded suddenly, leaving Seamus looking sad and teary eyed as he swayed drunkenly.  “Not everything gets better for telling.  And if you can’t think of anything to fucking fit that idea, then good.  It means your life has been better than mine.”  

Silence reigned for several minutes as the blond man slowly turned back to the bedroom.  Before he went through, he turned again, speaking over his shoulder, his eyes shrouded in darkness.

“Thanks for the Scotch.”

2 thoughts on “The Burn of Scotch

  1. Fury goes well with Scotch, as do loads of cursewords. I gotta wonder about poor Seamus, and what made his life so damned hard. Will you write more about him or do we just get these little bits?

    Also ‘damn your eyes’ is an awesome curse.

    • I don’t know if I will visit with Seamus again. Depends on if there is more story to tell in there. He just showed me a snippet. And it was super fun to cuss a bunch. 🙂

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