Title: Your friendly local drunk
by Robyn from Lancashire | in writing, poetry
Pushing the door open, the familiar scent of beer and old smoke slapped his nostrils. He shuffled to his usual spot: a table in the darkest corner of the pub. The proverbial battered wooden table and bench was more comforting to him than anything in the world. As he sits down, he removes his shabby coat and places it onto his chair. He leans back into the reliable chair and listens to it creak. Folding his yellow fingers into a knot, he sighs. The barmaid brings his usual pint of bitter over to him. They acknowledge each other silently. She knows him well, and understands his need for silence. She scuffles away to wipe the old tables, leaving him to his thoughts.
This is my life. Has been for forty seven years. Will be for however long I last on this dam earth.
He lifts the pint and places it to his lips, closing his eyes.
This is where he belonged. In the shadows of life with the forgotten things of yesterday.
He knew that he was the village drunk. Women warned their children to stay away. He was the man who always smelt bad, needed a shave, never bothered to talk to anybody.
They can never understand. They don't want to understand.
His wife was mentally ill. She spent all day in bed, waiting to be told she was normal, that her husband still loved her even though she was ill. He still remembered the days when they first met. Their wedding day. He smiled at the memory. Because he didn't pity her. He still loved her, perhaps even more now. But he hated seeing her so frail and vulnerable. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and make the illness leave her be. But he couldn't. He was helpless.
He was just another man lost to the drink.
I constantly find myself watching how other people react to life and their surroundings, and I like seeing the inner beauty of mankind.
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