Between the Lines

[Of all Russian reversals, the one that rings truest is: You do not consume alcohol; alcohol consumes you.]

The door fell open.
He stepped in.
He stumbled.
With four others.
Alone.
With an air of apprehension.

Silence greeted him.
Dancing lights hit him.
Darkness engulfed him.
And music, deafeningly loud.

He looked around for her.
He surveyed the scene.
He couldn’t find her anywhere.
The same sight everywhere.

He called out her name.
Greetings were made.
She still did not come.
The party had started.

He felt hungry.
He felt angry.
Since he hadn’t eaten since noon.
Since he saw glasses being emptied.

He went into the bedroom.
He walked into a corner.
Where she lay asleep.
Away from it all.

She slept there with her son.
They drew nearer.
They were jolted awake.
They jostled towards him.

The young boy stood up.
They now encircled him.
He knew what would happen.
He didn’t want it to happen.

“Where’s the food?”
“The drinks are good!”
The man demanded.
In an agitative voice.

“I haven’t made any for you.”
“I didn’t come for this.”
“And why may I know is that?”
“I just came to wish him.”

“I’m fed up your habit.”
“At least try it once!”
“Don’t compel me to beat you.”
“Please don’t force me to.”

She stood firm tonight.
He stood resolute.
“Well, you asked for it.”
“You think we’d let you go?”

The man removed his belt.
He tried to run away.
The young boy fled the room.
They didn’t allow him to escape.

He raised it o’er his head.
They caught hold of his hands.
And brought it down in a flash.
He tried to wriggle free.

The scream was curdling.
Someone was pouring it in.
He went to go again.
The bile-like bitterness.

Blood was spat out.
He spat it all out.
The chain of belting recurred.
Some more, in, was poured.

She held her screeching back.
Maniacal laughter.
Unbearable pain.
Too much alcohol in their blood system.
Too little blood in his alcohol system.
He didn’t let it down his throat.

The gun-shot was sudden.
He felt the grip slacken.
The body doubled over.
He dashed away to freedom.

The little boy held the gun.
He ran all the way home.
Cleaned it of finger-prints.
Clean of any pints.

He fell on his mother’s feet,
And saw the scars still on her shins;
Her bittersweet tears fell on him
And cleansed him of his sins.