Goodbye Dolly

18

It isn't a fair fight from the very first punch, but Albert Thoreau learned long ago that life isn't fair. He has no false illusions, therefore he isn't prone to indulge in emotions such as disappointment or recrimination.

This he firmly believes.

He has no illusions.

What he does have are delusions.

Drinking helps him escape the worst of reality. But, as another blow lands on the side of his face, he wishes he had waited until a little later in the evening before imbibing. Or possibly he should have started earlier and passed out someplace safe.

As he goes down, knees all rubbery and head spinning, he notices specks of blood on his shirt.

The blood is the same color as the sky, he notes, staring upward, flat on his back. The entire world has lost its vivid colors.

Monochromatic. Just like life.

"Tell me where it is, and I'll stop." His attacker's breath is warm and smells like sour milk.

Once, long ago, Albert had done a little boxing, the old two-step in the ring.

Lightweight.

"Tell me."

Albert thinks about taking a swing. No point. His assailant has an arsenal of lethal weapons.

He'll take his chances surviving a pair of fists rather than a heavy metal flashlight or police baton. Maybe Nacho will happen along and rescue him. Then he remembers he is supposed to join Nacho at their usual meeting place.

No help coming from that quarter.

"All any of you miserable derelicts understand is pain. Have a little more."

The man leans down and delivers another blow, and Albert feels his eye swelling shut. There is only one chance to escape.

A last look up at the colorless sky, a roll to his side. Then Albert goes limp and plays dead.