Sunday Mourning.

It was the same bar, the same time, and the same people as every Saturday night. The place was quite small, poorly lighted, and the word dusty fell short to describe the top of the shelves. It wasn’t completely full, just groups of people talking and enjoying their drinks. Life could be breathed there, good moments mixed with the youth and joy of long time ago.

Then the door opened and a man dressed in a dark coat with a black hat on his head came in. He waved friendly to the bartender and left the jacket in the hanger. Ian Curtis was singing through the speakers as every night. In his arm he carried a funeral wreath. His friends were waiting for him some minutes ago. All of them looked at him with the same strange face. He reached them and say hello to everyone of them.

“Man, why are you carrying that funeral wreath? is everything ok?,” asked one of his friends.

“She is dead” answered without altering his face, “she is finally dead, dead and buried. Let’s go drink to her memory”.

“Wouldn’t you rather go home and rest? It must have been a though day for you.” Said another friend.

“Go and do whatever you want!” yelled him, “I said I want a fucking drink and I’m going to have it.” Said him as he waved his hand to the waiter telling him to come.

“Hey! Jack, how are you? Same as usual?” asked the waiter.
“Hi frank, yeah. Take the money.”

The waiter went for the bottle of whiskey, and poured it in a glass full of ice. His friend surrounded him and everyone started to drink. One drink after another and the night took the same way of many other previous nights. And with the glasses empty and the waiter shouting: “Guys, we have to close please leave!” for at least 20 minutes, they said goodbye to the waiter, took the flowers and left the bar.

John was pretty drunk by then. He took a cigarette from his pocket but he started to puke before he could even lit it. One of his legs failed him while puking and he fell directly into the puddle of disgusting stomach fluids which were still warm. His friends raised him from the pool of vomit. He took the flowers and started walking home as he could, while singing one of his favorite Dylan’s songs.

When he arrived home he was still drunk, he sat in the chair while the room was moving wildly. The sun was starting to break the night little by little. He threw the funeral wrath across the room and turned the computer on while staring undisturbed to the flowers. Flowers of death, for a dead soul. 

At the next day they found the body surrounded by a pool of blood. A gun in his hand was pointing to his head.  The screen of the computer revealed the image of a girl with and man. A man supposed to be him. A man who has always been him.  A man who was no longer him. Another man. It was the same room, the same solitude… the same nothing. As it has always been before her.

Flowers of death for the dead.