The Meeting
Oh cookies. Little sandwiches with the corners cut off too. I wonder why there isn't any meat. Maybe they’re sick of it by now. Everyone looks quite underfed. About five people start to sit down in the circle of chairs in the middle of the function room. A woman in a black dress and thick white makeup stands in the centre of the circle. Now I know it can get quite tense beforehand so we’ll begin right away. The rest of us take a chair. The woman gestures towards a man in his late thirties.
My name is Keith. Everyone says hi Keith in unison. Keith looks into the centre of the circle and his eyes go vacant. He winces and shifts in his seat like he’s trying to stop himself from throwing up. It started when I was thirteen, I used to take my mother’s gin and drink it in her wardrobe. She’d beat me silly for throwing up on her clothes. I keep getting dreams about being in there, looking out of the slats. The tv is blaring but all the other lights are off. I look at the television and when I try to make out what’s on it I wake up. Happens almost every hour, I sometimes just want to drink so I could get one night’s rest but I know that's just part of the way your mind justifies giving into the addiction. Thinking about it drags me down so much, I don’t know if it even helps anymore. A tear fell from his eye directly onto the floor without a sob or single change in movement. That’s all I can do right now. The woman gives an earnest nod and holds her palm up to me. This isn’t the butchery convention is it? The whole room doesn’t so much as laugh but push wind out from the back of their throats.