Whiskey Stains

Achime shattered the silence—thrice. Smells of smoke and of musty books overwhelmed the room. Above the mantelshelf was a painting, harsh in its brushstrokes, of the head of the Havashim family. It hung like a muddled mirror of the man in the rightmost recliner. He slouched in the chair, firelight barely reflecting in coal-black eyes, casting shadows on his face like a boney specter. He held a glass in his hand. Its contents were potent yet untouched.

How has it come to this? He wore a suit jacket. Bright green in its prime, now withered to a pale marsh color. His undershirt, once white, now yellow, held crumbs and stains due to past carelessness.

Figures of animals adorned the wall. Trophies of deer, a wolf, a bear. There was also a raven. No recollection of how it got there, but it still stared out of black opals, as if to lay blame for its being there.

On the table beside the rightmost recliner were hospital papers. Whiskey-stained and strewed, they were anchored by an unlabeled bottle. The man raised his glass and drank. In the fire were smoldering pages of a will, unwritten, offering all he had, “to whom it may concern.” How has it come to this?

71 Short Story