It is a dark bottle; it has a white cap and a white label wraps around the middle. But the bottle itself is dark, is a dark plastic, one that catches the candlelight and throws it back in her face. There are a lot of little words on the bottle, though most of them have been blurred by water. She does not look at any of them.
“It is two times a day.” His hands unscrew the cap as if they are divorced from his body. He holds up the little white bit, indicating a line on the inside. “It is its own cup, you see, so you do not need to get one. Fill it to the line in the morning and night. Don’t drink afterwards.”
“I don’t drink at night.”
She drinks at three in the morning — not alcohol, never alcohol. She is thirty years dry, maybe more. She no longer keeps track. She drinks large amounts of water, draining the kegs and the stores in the little hours when no one can see her.
No one can ever see her.
Still, she hides it, as if she will forget in the morning, or rather as if she is not responsible for her midnight actions. She never takes her blame.
Her voice rings clearer than his, and it makes her uncomfortable; she tries not to notice so much. She sits at the table, the little table, and rests her hands on the wood.
“You can drink in the morning, before you drink, or half an hour after. But wait half an hour.” He screws the cap back on. She will confront the burning blue liquid when the hours drain and the night gets thicker. Not now. “Be careful. You are going to get splinters.”
She rubs her hands over it. “I sanded it down not a month ago.” She pulls them away after a moment; a little splinter sticks out of her index finger. “Oh — perhaps I am wrong; maybe it was more than that . . . I do not remember . . . was the pharmacy bad?”
“Wet.” He laughs without echo. “No. The panic has died down now, or been killed . . . they do not swarm after the disasters. Not anymore. It is commonplace, now, isn’t it? So they are calm.”
“Do you think people will come to our doors? After?” She tries to pull the splinter out; her blunt fingertips shove it deeper into her flesh. She winces. “Tweezers; do we have tweezers?”
“I do not think people are going to come.” He gets up, and vanishes into another room. “I think they will know it is vacant. They can still take shelter.”
“But it is supposed to be a place to sustain them. Where they are taken care of. I do not want them to be left alone without help — ”
“We have not had a visitor in a while.”
“That does not mean we shall not have one soon. What if there is someone who needs us, what if there is — ” He comes back; she takes the tweezers from him and works at the splinter in her finger. “Someone who is in danger or someone who is — ”
He tries to keep his words gentle, with little success. “He is not here anymore.” She stabs her finger with the tweezers; the barest hint of blood wells up in the cut. “He has left; He is not here anymore . . . this is no longer a house of worship; there is no one left to worship. Our world has been abandoned. We are done.”
“I cannot get it out.” A buzzing fills her ears. She rubs her jaw, smearing blood over wrinkled skin. “It is stuck — anything I do only pushes it further in — ”
“You should not have rubbed the wood. I told you what would happen.”
“I know.” She closes her eyes, and sets them down. “I know.”
“Hopefully He is waiting for us. Is that not all we can wish for? Hope for? That there is solace on the other side . . . comfort on the other side . . . happiness, release — ”
“I do not like when you talk about this.”
What she does not say is that there is no point. No point in his blind conviction; no point in his attempts to convince her . . . not now. Not anymore. It is far too late to turn back now.
Her ears fill with noise. A cacophony of her failing mind’s creation.
“I am sorry.” He moves hands closer to her. “My fault.”
She grasps the bottle. “I should — night is falling, I should — get ready — ” As she always does. Pretend this is a moment where she does as she always does.
“Yes.” She tries to stand up, hips knotted; the injured hand clutches the edge of the table. Her breath is heavy in rotten lungs. Death’s weight strains against her worn seams.
She falls to her knees, descent slow, joints creaking; her hand rests on the edge of his occupied chair.
“It is all right.” The bottle hits the ground and rolls away. Perhaps if someone does come they will find it, seal unbroken . . . perhaps they will have a use for it — a rotten tooth, an abscess. “It is all right, now.”
One body falls to the ground, cold already. Pushes the empty chair it is leaning against farther away, scraping together over the stones.
And the empty church, now a crypt, lies still.
“It is two times a day.” His hands unscrew the cap as if they are divorced from his body. He holds up the little white bit, indicating a line on the inside. “It is its own cup, you see, so you do not need to get one. Fill it to the line in the morning and night. Don’t drink afterwards.”
“I don’t drink at night.”
She drinks at three in the morning — not alcohol, never alcohol. She is thirty years dry, maybe more. She no longer keeps track. She drinks large amounts of water, draining the kegs and the stores in the little hours when no one can see her.
No one can ever see her.
Still, she hides it, as if she will forget in the morning, or rather as if she is not responsible for her midnight actions. She never takes her blame.
Her voice rings clearer than his, and it makes her uncomfortable; she tries not to notice so much. She sits at the table, the little table, and rests her hands on the wood.
“You can drink in the morning, before you drink, or half an hour after. But wait half an hour.” He screws the cap back on. She will confront the burning blue liquid when the hours drain and the night gets thicker. Not now. “Be careful. You are going to get splinters.”
She rubs her hands over it. “I sanded it down not a month ago.” She pulls them away after a moment; a little splinter sticks out of her index finger. “Oh — perhaps I am wrong; maybe it was more than that . . . I do not remember . . . was the pharmacy bad?”
“Wet.” He laughs without echo. “No. The panic has died down now, or been killed . . . they do not swarm after the disasters. Not anymore. It is commonplace, now, isn’t it? So they are calm.”
“Do you think people will come to our doors? After?” She tries to pull the splinter out; her blunt fingertips shove it deeper into her flesh. She winces. “Tweezers; do we have tweezers?”
“I do not think people are going to come.” He gets up, and vanishes into another room. “I think they will know it is vacant. They can still take shelter.”
“But it is supposed to be a place to sustain them. Where they are taken care of. I do not want them to be left alone without help — ”
“We have not had a visitor in a while.”
“That does not mean we shall not have one soon. What if there is someone who needs us, what if there is — ” He comes back; she takes the tweezers from him and works at the splinter in her finger. “Someone who is in danger or someone who is — ”
He tries to keep his words gentle, with little success. “He is not here anymore.” She stabs her finger with the tweezers; the barest hint of blood wells up in the cut. “He has left; He is not here anymore . . . this is no longer a house of worship; there is no one left to worship. Our world has been abandoned. We are done.”
“I cannot get it out.” A buzzing fills her ears. She rubs her jaw, smearing blood over wrinkled skin. “It is stuck — anything I do only pushes it further in — ”
“You should not have rubbed the wood. I told you what would happen.”
“I know.” She closes her eyes, and sets them down. “I know.”
“Hopefully He is waiting for us. Is that not all we can wish for? Hope for? That there is solace on the other side . . . comfort on the other side . . . happiness, release — ”
“I do not like when you talk about this.”
What she does not say is that there is no point. No point in his blind conviction; no point in his attempts to convince her . . . not now. Not anymore. It is far too late to turn back now.
Her ears fill with noise. A cacophony of her failing mind’s creation.
“I am sorry.” He moves hands closer to her. “My fault.”
She grasps the bottle. “I should — night is falling, I should — get ready — ” As she always does. Pretend this is a moment where she does as she always does.
“Yes.” She tries to stand up, hips knotted; the injured hand clutches the edge of the table. Her breath is heavy in rotten lungs. Death’s weight strains against her worn seams.
She falls to her knees, descent slow, joints creaking; her hand rests on the edge of his occupied chair.
“It is all right.” The bottle hits the ground and rolls away. Perhaps if someone does come they will find it, seal unbroken . . . perhaps they will have a use for it — a rotten tooth, an abscess. “It is all right, now.”
One body falls to the ground, cold already. Pushes the empty chair it is leaning against farther away, scraping together over the stones.
And the empty church, now a crypt, lies still.