On a small island accessible by a short ferry, lived a man consumed by a toxic mind. I never met this man or knew him, in the least. A veteran of World War 2, so I’m told. Some locals called him “weird,” others labelled him “crazy”. A natural reaction to unorthodox and erratic behaviour. Maybe he was misunderstood. Maybe he was sick. No doubt, he ran from his demons, the things his young eyes witnessed in violent years long passed.
On top of a forested hill, on traditional lands, sits an empty house. Oddly shaped, makeshift, and eroded by neglect. Outside, poorly crafted decks, unfinished additions, and railings made of driftwood. Something out of a scene from Peter Pan. A lost boy’s tree fort, brought to reality. In the yard, dark-eyed ravens perch in saddened treetops and scavenge leftover dreams. Inside, wretched frigidity, rotted junk, and the remnants of a life of pain. Broken glass and broken will. It was in this house where that old man held a lengthy stand-off with police, and an even lengthier stand-off with his own deformed thoughts. As his disease threw one last, crushing blow, he cocked his gun and pointed the barrel to himself. A move of desperation. Backed into a corner with nowhere left to hide, he rigidly pressed the cold, grey pistol to his forehead; steel on bone. Shakingly, he begged for relief as he squeezed the trigger and crumpled to the same damp, hardwood floor that he forever paced in hopelessness. His warm blood quickly saturated the worn timbers beneath his feet and trickled between the cracks in each board. He did not overcome his suffering. He ended it.
The empty alcohol bottles strewn throughout the property tell me that he chose to hide his pain. A warm blanket of liquid denial. Another drink, to buy time and tell himself that life is bearable. Another drink, before the hate and anger flow like the bitter winds outside his door. The unkempt manor in which he left his dwelling tell me that he gave up a long time ago. Too afraid to leave this world, too broken to stay. He lived his life in mental purgatory while waiting for his sentence. He spent his final days in a shipwrecked realm that clouded the pristine beauty of the island around him. He died alone. Fitting, for a man who was inhabited by memories of the dead left on distant battlefields.
This man’s home was a view into his own mind. Rotten, decrepit, and cluttered. The empty bottles, an ill-thought attempt to escape the horrors of his youth. With the final page of his story now written, and that derelict house of night terrors ordered for demolition, this man’s book moves from biography to cautionary tale.
We cannot out-run the haunting ravens that peck at our brains. Liquid spirits won’t drown the parasitic sea monsters in the dark depths of our souls. A pistol is no match for unrelenting ghosts. Our only opportunity for salvation is to work until our hands are calloused, worn, and dirty. We must replace the broken scaffolding of our minds with materials strong enough to endure the gale force winds that try to knock us over. Board by board we build a better life. One worth occupying. Those empty, glass bottles signify this man’s lonesome last call. An inebriated end to a life unlived.
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