The Fisherman

The pain dug its way from the lower back all the way to the toes. He had to pause, fingers tangled in the delicate, cutting strings of the net, take a deep breath and find a new footing on the swaying deck of his fishing boat. The burn was worse now than it had ever been before.

The medicine the doctor had prescribed to him wasn't nearly enough, not since the pain had decided to migrate from his back to the whole lower left side of his body. He sighed and could almost taste the pungent aroma of whiskey on his tongue. It wouldn't cure the pain, but at least he wouldn't care about it so much.

He cursed into the wind, spitting salt water as the trickles sprayed into his mouth. He'd removed all the bottles from his boat after the incident. He couldn't trust himself anymore.

There was some left home though. Although Kate had tried to pour everything down the drain last week, he'd managed to hide a bottle into the garden shed.

He felt a sting of longing for the scent of his wife's freshly washed hair and the tiny puffs of his dreaming son's sleepy breath.

It wasn't his fault, not really. She didn't understand how hard it was these days, bringing the bread to the table. He needed the momentary relief from all the stress and the constant demands she burdened him with.

He was never proud of himself when he saw the bruises and cuts on her afterward. But she knew better than to aggravate him after a long, painful day at sea and he was always sure to make up for it, buy flowers and her favorite cake, kiss and apologize.

The net was light today, like it had been for the past two weeks. He dreaded to lift it. He knew how little it would contain. A spike of fire burned through his left calf. Once he was home, he would go to the shed and take the edge off. Just a few sips. It wouldn't hurt anyone.