"My vision blurred as I blinked through the burn seeping down my throat. I could feel the way the liquid seared through my stomach, clawing at my insides like a beast in a beartrap; like a secret kept too long. I put down the small glass on the countertop and picked up its twin, full and spilling over the rim. I hurriedly lifted it to my lips. My chapped lips stung as the clear substance swiped over the cracks that had embedded themselves into the soft skin from months of sleepless nights and poor self-care.
My friends and a few strangers circled me as I slammed that one down and picked up the third of the moment, of the minute, but not at all of the night. This was…what? The seventh? Perhaps the sixth. I had lost count. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as I brought it to my lips, the burn triggering water from my eyes. Was it the liquor or a different poison altogether?
How many would it take, I wondered. How many more liquid flames would I have to savour to fill the pit in my stomach, or to burn off the rest of me and make it feel normal? Would I ever feel normal? How could I, when I can feel his breath on my lips, but he is nowhere.
I chase the ghost of his lips with every kiss to glass. A single touch of my fingers to the countertop, and suddenly our fingers are intertwined in a sanctity all their own. The only prayers ever answered were those uttered when our hands slotted together, knuckle grazing against knuckle. A whispered press of fingertips, not hard but with enough reverence that it could merge fingerprints.
My friends are chanting, hooting and cheering as I scarf down another shot. They are so loud, it rattles in my ears and bounces off the tough walls of my skull. Why do I still hear him? Why does his laugh slide off my back and down my arms, grasping my hands? His joyful breathlessness, the crinkles by his eyes, the way he tossed his head back, the clap of his hands, the endearing ‘You’re such an idiot’, the smile – it tugs on my fingers like a wedding band, holds my wrists like handcuffs and leads me straight to another shot. Eight? Nine? Ten?
I remember his eyes. A single tear slides down my cheek, dampening the area already smudged with alcohol, surely littered with particles of nicotine.
I remember his hands in my hair, cupping my face, a worshipping thumb tracing my bottom lip, nose to nose, the butterfly kiss of his eyelashes on my cheek, his warm breath against my ear. His chest pressed to mine in a dance of bodies, a dance of devotion. Moments so biblical they could have only been divinely ordained. Bodies locked together in a promise that was meant to be kept until the end of time, a sworn oath.
I plead, with any god, any saint, any healer, to erase the mutterings he so often pressed into my pillow, the sofa, the shower. My bathroom is tiled with remnants of him. I let the water run, scalding and painful, to fog the mirrors, so I never have to find him in reflections as I see him in my coffee. The smell of freshly ground coffee beans only spurs the feeling of his mouth on my shoulder, his breath on my neck, and the kiss on the crown of my head.
Drunken eyes find the bartender, “More.”
It’s my voice, but it sounds distant. Out of my body. I’m not really here.
I am there. With him. Reading handwritten letters, unwrapping presents. The anticipatory tapping of his fingers against the hardwood floors. Sleek. Polished. Like a mirror. Like glass.
“You’re an animal!” Rough hands clasp my shoulders and jostle me, as the tone is enveloped in a disbelieving smile.
An animal, I think. Yes. I am an animal. Wounded. Lost amidst trees I have never seen before, fighting my way past the heavy foliage. It’s too heavy. I can’t see the sun. It can’t even hold itself upright anymore. The leaves fall, and they look familiar. They look like the first snowflakes to fall each winter. They look like the red tint of the tip of his nose as he shovelled snow, the rub of his gloved hands. The owls sound like his favourite movie playing in the background while his body slotted with mine in front of the fireplace—a makeshift bed of quilts and blankets stopped knees and elbows from digging into the rough floor of a quiet, forgotten cabin.
I am not here. I am not at the bar with people I know. I am there.
Outside the cabin, in the heavy woods, looking in. I can hear our breathing, our hushed laughter, our declarations. The sounds of our plans, the names of our kids, our house with a master bedroom and a four-poster bed, make my skin crawl like the wail of a banshee. What must I do to escape the firelight from the cabin, and how do I reach for it one more time? I am a wounded, bleeding animal, trying to figure out which limb needs to be mauled off so I can escape. Where’s the cut? Where’s the blood? How do I know which part of me needs to die so I can survive? How do I find the gaping, bleeding cavity when he’s embedded himself so deeply within me? How am I still mine when his whispers are threaded in my hair? I chase the warmth from that firelight, from that night, and it leads me to this burn. Any burn. It is nowhere near the heat of our hearts beating at once, but the throbbing in my head allows me to sink into the feeling of my head on his chest. Where he ended, I began. A bond forged only through the softest connections and the most vibrant of red strings.
How do I sever this tether when I could find the touch of his skin under each layer of mine? I am a walking testament to the love he offered. To the love I mourn.
I am a museum. I am a graveyard.
For a moment, I think I hear him. I think I hear his soothing voice and the way he says my name. He’s saying my name. My name. In laughter, in anger, in tears, in a sigh, in pleading, in penance. It fell from his lips like it was made on the tip of his tongue, like he had been saying it for an eternity. Like it would be the last breath, the last echo, carried from his tomb. Like it is his.
It is not. It is my friend, cheery and enthusiastic, as the bartender sets down more glasses. I can’t find the wound. I don’t know which limb. It is nowhere. It is everywhere.
I watch as the liquor is poured, and the overhead lights reflect in the transparent liquid. They flicker. I see his smile, bright and unbridled. Like a flame.
I can’t escape his kiss, his touch, his love. His hands, his hands, his hands. I can’t escape the cabin. I can’t escape the firelight.
As I lift the new glass to my lips, and toss my head back, it scorches my throat.
His laugh. His eyes. His voice. The cabin. The fireplace. The firelight. The fire. The burn.
I swallow the fiery liquid, tears welling.
I can’t make it stop, so I will let it burn."
-Nathalie Fiorin // 28/11/2025
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