Last Night

by Ryan Thomas LaBee

You tell yourself you’re not a bad person, but the words feel as empty as the aluminum can you're holding.

You’ve never seen your wife as upset as she was last night. Fleeing your shared home of five years, with your daughter, blanket-wrapped like a Fabergé egg in newspaper, into the cool, black air of the night.

But when was that?

Last night. The very last night?

You hope not.

To be fair, last night you weren’t yourself. It was as if you were a spectator, viewing yourself from above, below, both sides—but never straight on.

You don’t remember finding the keys, starting the car, or how your daughter got into her car seat. Part of you is amazed you managed to buckle her in at all, but you know better than to mention it to your wife. It’s a small thing in the grand scheme of all the big things that took place last night.

Last night? It feels like the last. 

Last night? 

You can’t imagine there being a day that follows it.

You tell yourself to pour it all out. Everything, even the hidden bottles saved for a rainy day. And you do. For a moment, you’re proud of yourself for hunting the bottles, stashed like Easter eggs, waiting to be found. You get dressed in your uniform and comb your hair, and in the mirror, you wonder: When did those dark rings appear under your eyes like bruises? 

After work, I’ll call her, you tell yourself. She’ll understand. I’ll make her understand. Last night was the last. No more. Stone cold. Straight as an arrow. Dry as fall leaves.

But on your lunch break, you find yourself in line, asking the clerk for the cheap stuff. Bottom row.

“I hope you aren’t on duty,” she says, but it feels like she’s talking to someone else.

You tell yourself that today is the last time you’re buying from this place.

Tonight is the last night, you tell yourself. 

I’ll call her tomorrow.

You lay the bottle in the empty car seat, swaddled in its brown paper. That’s when you notice it—the lap belt hanging loose. You lean over, grab the belt, feed it through the back of the seat, and clip it in place. 

You bring both shoulder straps together, securing the bottle for transport.

Ryan (He/Him) is an English/Creative writing Graduate from Missouri State University. He is a photographer, filmmaker, writer, and veteran. His work is available or forthcoming in Five on the Fifth Literary Magazine, Writing Lifeworlds: An Anthology of Creative Nonfiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Night Picnic Journal, and Microfiction Monday Magazine. Ryan is the founder and editor-in-chief ofPyre Magazine. and his first novella,Killing My Flesh Without You, and his Halloween Anthology, The Halloween Party: and Other Tales of All Hallows Eve Terror, are available wherever you get books. He lives in Southwest Missouri with his wife and daughters and their menagerie of domesticated animals