They say you hear bells before you die, but that must be the old and superstitious saying so, as I heard nothing but sheep. Constant bleating in my ears as I lay bloodied on the grass in darkness, helpless, dying like a rat. I can’t even say I put up a good fight.
It’s not hard to picture dad’s face looking down on me now, disappointed and drunk. I’m sure he has a bottle in his hand up there, or down there for that matter. He always told me he would burn, that life has its own way of catching up to you. Everything bad you do, he would say, would end up by your feet, shackled to your ankles for you to drag everywhere you go. A timeless weight.
I never forget the day we shared our first drink together. It was his way of baptising me. Turning me into a real man for the real world.

I had suckered down the shot of whiskey and tried my best to keep it in. The plaster on the bridge of his nose crinkled as he let slip a thin smile from beneath his dirty grey beard. His plaster hid a wound that had never quite healed from the time he jumped through a bar window; it had built up quite a name for himself in this backwards town.
I was the thing that let it down, though. His weak son.
Nervous eyes fell upon us the second we stepped onto the wooden floor.
The smell inside was delicate; stale tobacco and dry sick.
People all around were smoking as if cigarettes were going out of fashion.
A man looked at me with murky eyes. He was frail like me. Yet he kept his head down as he passed father. But no. Dad’s eyes locked onto him.
“Y-you alright, Glynn?” the man nodded, nervously.
He tried walking away, when father took a step, “what are you? The friggin’ doctor?”
There was a silence. One which I was used to, but had not yet learnt to stifle with words. It ended in blood and tears. The man had a brother. A builder, was the word that later went around town. The builder who had the muscles of an ox and the punch of a boxer, yet he was still the one unconscious on the floor, laying on shattered glass in his own blood. Father pulled me out of there quick after that, not without getting a drink behind the bar first. I realised my hands were red raw as I sat in the truck. They were cut up. My father cheered with a drunk excitement as he started the engine. My mind was empty. Then it all came rushing back: the frail man in a headlock; his face purple with agony like a spot about to burst. It was my first fight. A sweet rush swept me off my feet as I felt my bony knuckle collide onto the man’s nose. A crunch. A distinct noise that cracked through the bar.
He revealed a set of teeth and sank them into my flesh. The pain tore through my veins like molten lead. I began flaying him with blows. One. Two. Three. His teeth, broke, shattered and splintered as my fist connected. With the last punch I let him go.
Dropping like a ragdoll, his face like a Picasso. At this point, my father had reached behind himself and grabbed a bottle.
The man’s brother was throwing hesitant fists at dad, almost as if he was afraid.
The punch of a boxer my ass.
But I stumbled back, along with the other onlookers as I heard the loudest bang in my life - followed by a torrent of glass, beer and blood. I got caught in it, spraying me up and down. The bottle connected with the builder’s head, leaving a gash of red down the side of his face. Shards of glass were caught in his skin, yet he still stood.
Through the man’s hazy vision came a fist out of nowhere. One strong enough to break a man.

Later at home, we celebrated, knocking back whatever we could find. In his drunk state, my father looked at me. His gaze was intense. “Boy,” he muttered through his hiccups, “t-tonight. You done me p-proud.” His words sobered me up. The walls stopped spinning and it felt as if a massive weight had been lifted off my chest. I did him proud. Whether it was the alcohol talking or not, I was happy. Something I hadn’t felt since mum had been alive.

Going back to that night, a wave of sadness washed over me. Father had been right. Life had finally caught up with me and the weight had finally dragged me down. I heard a murmur of voices from my side. A pair of thick hands grabbed me by the collar.
“You don’t know me, eh?” he shouted, “But you sure remember my dad?”
He spat on me and I felt a blow in my ribs. My gasps muffled by the wind.
“My old man – the one your drunk shit father bottled. He died today. Had never been the same after that” he said quietly.
The memory of it began to slip. But It must’ve been twenty years, now maybe more.
Several sheep were at my side, bleating and chewing at grass. Hands clasped around my neck.
I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t resist.
The only thing that really hurt was knowing mum had to stay up there all alone.
I’d be joining dad on the other side.
It wouldn’t be all bad though, maybe we could share one last drink.

© trane