Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  Monty conceded and scuffled towards the armchair that sat directly in front of Dexter’s desk. His mind was swimming with questions about what was happening. If it wasn’t the wall in the bedroom then what the hell was it? And why was Dave here? Why was he just sitting there and not saying anything, looking like a kid who’d been put in detention? What the hell was wrong with him? Did he do something last night that made him angry? Did he say something to him that pissed him off? And what was with the ambulance? Did somebody get injured? Why wouldn’t they tell him what the hell was going on?

  Dexter cleared his throat. “Monty,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about.”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  Dexter paused and looked down at his knuckles, as if the right words were somehow imprinted on the back of his fingers. His hands were shaking, his lips were trembling, and he had little beads of sweat forming just above his upper lip.

  Immediately, Monty began to get that uneasy feeling, that feeling of nerves twisting deep inside his gut. Something was off, something was coming, something told him he should get up and run. But he didn’t run. Not this time. Something told him to hold his ground. So, he sat up straight and squared his shoulders, his hands on his knees, his feet on the floor. “What’s going on?” he asked, leaning forward, the twisting in his stomach now up in his throat.

  “Monty”—Dexter’s voice was a delicate whisper, like the exchange of condolences inside a funeral home. He glanced over at Dave, but Dave just sat there, chewing on his nails, staring down at the floor—“There’s something we need to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about Vicky. It’s about the accident.”

  The hairs on Monty’s neck began to stand upward like the needles imbedded in a porcupine’s fur. He clenched his jaw and dug his fingers into the armchair, so tight that his hands and arms began to quiver. “What about it?” he said, leaning so far forward, that it looked like his chin might touch the top of Dexter’s skull.

  “Well”—Dexter’s eyes darted between Dave and the doorway, as if he was checking to make sure Monty couldn’t escape—“It’s a very fragile situation, and before we get into it, I just want to remind you what it says in the Big Book about forgiveness. Do you remember what it says?”

  “What?”

  “The Big Book, Monty. Do you remember what it says about forgiveness?”

  “Look—cut the shit, Dexter, and just tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

  Dexter stared at him for just a moment, then dropped his head and looked back down at his hands. “Alright, well, last night, you told Dave about the accident, about how you weren’t sure whether or not another vehicle ran you off the road?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Well, Dave here has some information about it. He believes he might know who the other driver was.”

  “What?”

  “Dave?” Dexter turned and looked over at him. “You wanna tell Monty what you know?”

  Dave nodded and finally looked up at Monty—it looked like his head was attached to the floor. His eyes were dripping and his hands were convulsing. He was crying so hard, it sounded like he was choking, the words like something sharp lodged in his esophagus. “Monty,” he said, looking up at him, the snot from his nostrils dripping down his chin. “I’m so sorry. I was fucked up and I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t even remember what happened until you told me last night. Please Monty, forgive me. I fucked up, I’m sorry. I’ll turn myself in. I’ll go to prison. Just tell me what to do. I’ll do whatever you want—”

  Monty’s body went numb and he collapsed back into the armchair, watching as Dave’s lips moved up and down. But he couldn’t hear anything that the guy was saying, his words swallowed by a harsh, swilling sound—a sound like water flushing in through the windows, pouring in through the door, filling up the room. He looked down at his hands—they were shaking, his knuckles a trembling, bloodless rage. The sound of the water was getting louder and louder, its continuous drone drowning out all other sound. When he looked back up, Dave was still talking, his tobacco-stained gums flapping up and down. Then, something sharp swelled inside him, something white and hot pumping through his veins. It felt as if God himself had reached down and touched him and injected him with the fury of heaven and hell. He rose up from the armchair, as if lifted by something, his feet beneath him, but not touching the floor.

  Then, all he could hear was Dave screaming, pleading with him to get the hell off of him. Monty had Dave’s elbows pinned underneath his knees, his fists like cleavers dropping down on his jaw. He could hear the cartilage splitting beneath him like carrots getting chopped underneath the blade. The blood from Dave’s mouth spilled out onto the carpet and his eyes began to roll into the back of his head, but Monty didn’t stop—he kept on going, the flesh from his knuckles sticking to Dave’s skin. But then something grabbed him and pulled him backward…away from the beating…away from Dave. It was Dexter. He had his skinny arms wrapped around Monty’s shoulders and his hands locked just beneath his collarbone. He pulled Monty back across the office and threw him like a rag doll up against the wall. Then, he took his forearm and plunged it against Monty’s adam’s apple and locked it there just beneath his chin.

  “Stop it!” Dexter screamed, as he leaned all his weight into Monty, the pressure from his forearm pinning Monty up against the wall. “Stop acting like this! How many times have you driven intoxicated? How many times have you gotten on that road drunk?”

  “Get the fuck off me!” Monty screamed, writhing beneath him, the pressure from the forearm cutting off the air to his lungs.

  “Can’t you see, Monty? He’s just like you! The only difference is, you haven’t killed anyone yet. But he has. He admits it. He’s accepted the blame and is ready to face himself. What have you done? Nothing. Nothing since you got here. Nothing but walk around, feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “Get the fuck off me. I can’t breathe.”

  “No. Not until you tell me you’re forgiven. Not until you tell me that you can forgive yourself.”

  Dexter took his forearm and plunged it further against Monty’s adam’s apple, the asphyxiating weight of it turning all light in the room to black. “Say it, Monty. Say you’re forgiven. Say you can move forward. Say it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “BECAUSE I DIDN’T LOVE HER, ALRIGHT!? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANNA FUCKING HEAR!?”

  “IS IT THE TRUTH!?”

  “YES! YES IT’S THE FUCKING TRUTH!”

  Dexter finally released him, removing his forearm from Monty’s throat. Monty collapsed to his knees while coughing, the oxygen in the air rushing back to his lungs. “I didn’t love her,” he said, as he sunk towards the carpet, the light in the room slowly coming back to his eyes. “I didn’t love her, but I needed her. She was the only thing I fucking had.”

  “But she’s gone now—”

  “And I killed her.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I’m the reason she’s fucking dead.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault. Dave just told you that. The guy over there just confessed.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

  Monty clenched his fists and slammed them against the carpet, his already chewed up knuckles further tearing against the floor. “Don’t you see?” he said, as he looked up at Dexter, the tears in his eyes streaming down his cheeks. “If I hadn’t met her, none of this would’ve happened. If I hadn’t used her she’d still be here.”

  “That’s bullshit Monty and you know it. You’re just using that as an excuse so you don’t have to recover. You’re taking the blame so you can feel sorry for yourself.”

  “So what if I am?”

  Dexter paused and took a step backward, his mouth wi
de open, his shoulders slumped forward.

  “Well,” he said, as he looked down at Monty, his eyes filled with deep disappointment. “I guess you’re right back where you first started, hiding behind blame so you don’t have to face yourself. Well go ahead. Keep blaming yourself. Keep pitying yourself and go crawl back inside your hole, because I can’t do this with you anymore. I can’t waste my time and my efforts trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. I have too many other patients in here to worry about—people who actually need and want my help—people like Dave over there, who are ready to recover, who are ready to face themselves. He didn’t have to do this, Monty. But he did. He came forward. Because he knew that if he didn’t, he could never recover. And now that he’s told you, what are you doing? Just hiding behind the same cop-out that you were when you first got here. And that’s pathetic. That’s really pathetic. And I won’t stand by anymore watching you do this to yourself.”

  Dexter dropped his head and drew a deep breath inward, then put his hand on his knee and pushed himself up. He walked to the floor safe and knelt down in front of it, pushed the code into the keypad and pulled open the safe. Reaching inside, he pulled out a little, plastic baggy that had Monty’s name taped across. “Here,” he said, as he stood up with the baggy and tossed it out onto the carpet, “it’s all yours. Take it.”

  Monty clenched his teeth and put one hand into the carpet then, sliding the other hand against the wall for balance, he slowly pushed himself up. His head was spinning and his throat was throbbing, but somehow he was able to straighten his legs and regain his equilibrium. As he limped across the office, he held his stomach, the blood from his knuckles dripping out across the floor. When he got to the baggy, he stopped and looked down at it, then looked up at Dexter, then back at the baggy.

  “What are you waiting for?” Dexter said. “Go on, take it. If you don’t want to be here then get the fuck out.”

  Monty bent his knees and crouched next to the baggy then reached out his hand and scooped it up off of the floor. He opened it up and pulled out his wallet, pulled out his keys, and pulled out his phone. He shoved them all inside his jacket pocket and let the remaining contents fall to the floor—his cologne, his razor, his worn out shoelaces—he didn’t really see a need to take them where he was going.

  He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders then walked towards the door on the other side of the office. But before he could open it, Dexter walked out after him, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “Just know, that this is it, Monty…this is your last opportunity. If you walk through that door, you can never come back. And you and I both know that you’ll never make it. You’ll eventually die a sad and lonely alcoholic death. It may not be today and it may not be tomorrow, but eventually, one day, you will die from this thing.”

  “I know,” Monty said then pulled his arm away from him, opened the door, and walked out.

  Chapter 35

  The End

  IT was almost dark outside by the time they pulled into the Greyhound bus terminal, the last remnants of the day shooting like embers from behind the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains. It had taken him all day, but he finally made it. He was back in Denver. He was back home.

  As the bus came to a stop, the driver pushed a button that popped the doors open. The passengers got up from their seats and scampered down the aisle. They brushed by Monty as he sat there waiting, his body turned towards the window, his forehead pressed up against the cold glass. Once the last guy had gotten up and walked by him, Monty grabbed the seat in front of him and slowly pulled himself up.

  When he got to the front, he stepped down through the doorway then moved to the line of bags being stacked by the rear of the bus. He spotted his green gym bag by the right rear tire then carefully bent down and picked it up. He made his way through the sad, desolate terminal, past the succession of wooden benches and out the front door. When he got outside, he flagged down a taxi, threw his bag in the trunk and climbed in the backseat. The driver asked where he was going and Monty told him—back to his apartment in Capitol Hill.

  The ride was short, about ten minutes, all the way down Colfax, a right onto Washington, and a left onto fourteenth. They stopped on the street in front of his building and Monty got out and paid the fare. Since he didn’t have any cash, the driver took down his information, including the numbers on his health savings debit card. Then, Monty grabbed his gym bag, slung it over his shoulder, walked down the sidewalk, and up the two flights of stairs. When he got to his door, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys and shoved them into the lock. As he pushed the door open, he was nearly knocked over by the stench of puke, urine, and stale alcohol. It was like death greeting him, like something decaying, like pieces of human excrement that had been baked in the oven for too long. It was inside the walls, imbedded in the carpet, soaked in the furniture, and saturated in the air. He could taste it in his mouth and feel it on his body, like a hot bowl of pea soup sticking to his skin. The smell was so bad that it made him quiver, the sickness in his stomach rising up in his throat.

  He shut the door behind him then pressed farther inward, trying not to step on the liquor bottles that were strewn across the living room floor. But that was easier said than done. The bottles were everywhere. It was almost as if someone had taken a trash bag and dumped it right in the middle of the room. They bounced off his shoes and rolled around on the carpet as he felt for the light switch that was mounted somewhere on the wall. He found it and flipped it upward, but nothing came on—the electricity was off.

  He staggered into the kitchen then opened the window to let in some air. Standing on his tiptoes, he looked in the cupboard and saw the matches sitting on the top of the microwave. He grabbed the box and walked over to the window and lit the candle that was sitting on the sill. Then, he took the candle and placed it on the counter next to an old box of pizza. As he looked down at the candle, he noticed a pair of shadows, moving through the light that was dancing around from the flame. He lowered his head to get a little closer and saw a group of cockroaches scurrying back behind the stove. They were fat and hairy, the size of golf balls, bloated on a slice of pizza that was completely covered with a thick, black mold. He jumped back, the chills running through him, the hot bitterness rising up into his throat. He shut his eyes and stood completely stationary, concentrating on his stomach, trying to breathe through his nose. But it was too late. There was too much of it. The more he swallowed, the more it came up. He couldn’t fight it. He had to get rid of it. It was coming up too fast. He couldn’t keep up.

  He covered his mouth and ran to the bathroom, then dropped to his knees and lifted the lid of the bowl. His stomach emptied like a winning slot machine, hot chunks of bile spewing from his throat. As it dropped into the toilet, the water splashed upward, hitting him in the eyes and dripping down his nose. But he didn’t care, because it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. Not anymore.

  He finished puking then flushed the toilet and watched his entrails swirl around in the bowl. As he pulled himself up, he saw something sitting behind the toilet, wedged behind the drain pipe and the base of the bowl. It was a handle of Cutty Sark scotch, wading in a puddle of toilet water, cobwebs bridged between the base of the bottle and the wall. He quickly turned away and tried not to look at it, but it seemed to be watching him, as if it had eyes in its brown plastic cap.

  He went over to the sink and opened up the medicine cabinet to see if his Trazadone bottles were all still there. They were—lined up together in straight, militant formation, like little red soldiers about to go to war. Four bottles times thirty, equaled one twenty, which was more than enough to send him to hell.

  He nodded to himself as he shut the medicine cabinet, then reached behind the toilet and grabbed the handle of scotch. But before he opened it, he looked up into the mirror, at the pale, blue eyes that were sunk in his face. This was it, he thought. This was his moment. After tonight, he could never go back. Once he
started, he had to finish. He couldn’t wimp out. He couldn’t quit. He had to pursue it to the gates of insanity, until his heart stopped beating, until he breathed his last breath. This was all he had left and so he had to embrace it. He had to turn his life and his will over to the care of his higher power—alcohol. It was his friend, his family, his life, his lover. Without it, he was nothing, he was nobody, he was lost. And so he drank, not out of gluttony or because he wanted to fulfill some kind of selfish indulgence—he drank because he had to. He drank because that’s who he was. Alcohol was as much a part of him as was his genetic makeup. It was inside his body. It was inside his bones. It was his purpose, his destiny, his penance, his atonement. His name was Monty and he was an alcoholic.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to extend a special thank you to Cortney Rehnberg and her beautiful daughter, Eva, who gave me the love and support I needed to learn how to live life again. I love you both very much. I’d also like to thank my writing teacher, Doug Kurtz, whose brilliant insight helped me to sharpen this story. Finally, I’d like to thank the following people who contributed in one way or another to the writing of this novel: Randall, Patricia, Phil, Christine, Rupert, Taz, and Gigi Seaward, William McMechen, Stacy Garcia, Lisa Voltz, Dan & Elisabeth Wells, Dan Vade Bon Coeur (aka Dan Adams), Kevin Clark, Gus Carruth, Eric Johnson, Patrick Murillo, Matt Miller, Lisa Soderlind, Megan Zuchowski, Christian George, Keith Moodispaugh, Rachel Gillis, Matt Black, Robby Farina, Benson & Christina Ledbetter, Cliffe Umstead, Richard & Lark Fleming, Dave Wylde, Benjy Dobrin, James Scherrer, Tauna Rignall, Chris Cunningham, Cougar Littlefield, Rob McNeil, Nick Petraglia, Nathan Faber, Zeeshan Gull, Larry Hebert, John Jechura, Craig (the homeless guy), Still Kallil, Skip Francouer, Paul Minor, Tommy & Joey Knothe, Dion Awakian, Dr. Ronald Neuman, Dr. Chris Roberts, Dr. Robert Chambers, Dr. Jacobs (Houston), Ben Wong, Brian Vincente, Doug Wildemuth, Prasad Garimella, Brian Murphy, Suhki Kaur, Todd Frank, Mandy Schmiedlin, Jay White, Alan Brown, John Bryant, Paxton (Oasis), Dylan Ritter, Richard Bourgeau, Dennis (Foundations), and Josh (Foundations). I’d also like to thank Jessica Carter for helping me proofread this thing. Thank you all for your support.