"You, my dear, have the soul of a writer."
I cringed before glancing at him with a scowl. "You mean the soul of a poet?"
"No. God, no. You're the furthest thing from a poet. Whereas a poem has the capability of designing a truth endowed with ribbo...
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KILL THE HEAD AND THE BODY WILL DIE
During the turn of the millennium, when folks were crazy about the Y2K bug and the potential horrors of widespread chaos, me and Maryanne Sinclair were sitting together on a floral sofa, watching as the remnants of a fire simmered into ash across the living room. She allowed me to have a can of soda that night while she sipped on a single glass of red wine—the only time I ever saw her drink. Her long fingers rubbed circles against my scalp, and I leaned into her side as we listened to smooth jazz on the radio. The TV was on mute as pictures of a party in Time Square flashed across the screen, the giant twinkling ball slowly inching downwards with every passing minute as anticipation of the New Year grew to critical mass.
Maryanne Sinclair was my mom, and for the most part it was just us in that little duplex on the Upper East side of New York. She worked as a nurse in a psychiatric hospital towards the edge of Brooklyn, and while most nights she spent long hours watching over the patients, she managed to get off New Years Eve of 1999 to spend time with me. It was one of the last nights we've ever spent together, and a memory I go to whenever I need to get my mind out of reality and fall back into the warmth of the past. Things fucking suck now; I'm a harden adult in a world driven by madness, but despite it all at least I had a mother that I knew loved me in everyway that she could.
I tried to imagine what she'd think of me right now, with a shot of whiskey in my hand and a sorry look of rage in my eyes. Resentful, like I deserved more than what I was willing to give. As if the world was ever fair, as if I had a right towards privilege and a comfortable living. I downed the whiskey–Maker's Mark. Shit was ten dollars a glass but I figured the expensive burn was worth the money tonight. I picked up the shot glass by the brim and tapped it against the counter.
I didn't start drinking until after my mother died, though once I started I could never stop. I grew up in a religious household, my mom a devoted Muslim and the teachings of the Qur'an were placed into our everyday lives. I didn't grow up to feel resentful towards religion because it was enforced, which I see happening often with many households geared heavily towards faith, though I'd be lying if I said I still practiced or even took the holy text with more than a grain of salt. I began to question God when He took away my mother when I was only a child, and after The Great Revolution my questioning of religion solidified into full-on doubt. What sort of sadistic maker would create something as fucked up as vampires? Fiends of the night, bloodthirsty and ruthless. The whole shabang. If there is a God, and at this point I'm not sure I'd even want to believe there is, He isn't there for a human's best interest. At best, He probably views mortals the same way we view livestock–as a means of consumption for his true children.
I could blame The Great Revolution for my nihilism, and I guess to a point I do. Or, at the very least, use it as a tool for justification whenever anybody asks. But if I'm being honest with myself, this bad attitude was a long time coming. My new salvation was within the golden ichor inside a bottle behind the bar, and tonight I had the full intention to drown in it.
