Jesse

12: Sparrow's last flight

12: Sparrow's last flight

            I can't believe what I just did.

            Why did I do it?

            Am I insane? Am I asking to be beaten? Why don't I just hand him the belt, or strike it across my own face?

            But I know it had to be done, simply because there was no other way. It was this way or no way.

            I knew more than anything Harold wouldn't let me just get up and leave. So it all came down to this.

            I gulped.

            My eyes bore through the air, unblinking. I realized my hand was trembling; I quickly slipped it under the table. I had to remind myself to not glance at Harold's drink so much.

            I heard his heavy breathing, and his attached keys jingling, before I saw him hunker into the kitchen. He grumbled. The chair squeaked as he pulled it out. More grumbling. Umph. He plopped down. Nervously, I glanced at his beer, biting my lip.

            I cast my eyes down onto my plate, slowly lifting a hand. My fork rattled against the plate as I tried to eat the baked chicken I had cooked. I heard him grab his beer.

            In slow motion: he raised the bear to his thin lips. Opened his mouth. Tipped the beer up. Drank.

            My heart pounded fiercely into my ears. My mouth was dry. Chew the food. Swallow. Try not to look at the beer.

            He sat the drink down. Silence. Then he began to eat, and wondered if it was going to ever work. Somewhere the clock ticked. Remember to chew the food. Swallow.

            From the corner of my eye, I saw Harold blink rapidly. He then began to sway slightly. He slumped over.

            Crash! His face collided into his plate, and it nearly scared the shit out of me. He sat there, crumpled over. Not dead.

            Suddenly, he snored loudly.

            The sleeping pills had worked. Thank God. But now there was a lot to be done.

            1. Pick him up from his plate and wipe his face off.

            Check.

            2. Take Harold from the kitchen and into his bedroom.

            Never mind, rethink number two.

            2. Attempt to take Harold at least out of the kitchen.

            Check. Sort of.

            3. Catch my breath, and try it again.

Check.

            4. Give up struggling, and drag Harold, without waking him, to his room.

(But he was out cold. If it wasn't for his snoring, I would have thought he had died.)

            Check.

            5. Move Harold to his bed.

            6. Repeat number five with more grunting and breathing, and finally get him on the damned thing.

            Check.

            7. Find Harold's keys.

            Check.