Milson (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3.

Life for Milson wasn’t easy. Wasn’t ever going to be, but he never thought fate could hate him so much to do this. Looking at his surroundings, Milson started to cry. And then sob, shortly followed by an irregular warbling wail. After he recovered from his state, Milson poured himself yet another Gin, lit yet another cigarette, and yet again felt kinda okay. Kinda okay enough to read the letter crumbling within his shaky, sweating hand:

Dear Mr. Hauumer,

 

            I regret to hear of the passing of you’re late mother Gladys Hauumer. I extend my condolences to you and you’re family.

As you’re mother’s sole inheritor; all belongings have been left to you’re possession. This includes all clothing and further personal affects, furniture, and household machinery and/or vehicles.

Mrs Hauumer’s will direct all personal savings be donated to the Clifton Community Church. This amount, at recent date equals $24,567. 85. Mrs Hauumer’s residential estate, as owing to First National Banking Inc, will be held for auction at later notice.

Arrangements for collection of belongings may be made by contacting the number provided above.

 

Regards,

Simon Gustrat

Solicitor.

Milson wasn’t sure how many times he read through the letter. It astounded him. Previously, the Police had called to see him at the Refuge, and inform of the death. Milson thought perhaps they may have required him to ID the body; however it seemed it had been done. This angered Milson somewhat, and he tried to imagine who possibly could have been willing to do such a thing. The Pastor of course, he later assumed, he could almost imagine it. Her, sitting propped on her immaculate white death bed, parched and frayed, dramatically gasping for air between each frail word. He sitting close, reading passages from the Bible and wiping her beaded forehead with his handkerchief. He puts ice between her lips in attempt to quench her unquenchable thirst.

He wondered if she had been sorry. If she cried for him, for them and what could have been. If she regretted anything, or of she just ‘followed the light’ and entered the House of the Lord. ‘Bloody bitch was probably on the guest list’, Milson thought bitterly.

 Milson read over the letter for one last time. By now, Milson was fuming.

Left all her belongings, with no home to store them in because the bank owns the fucking house; and missing out on $25 grand, given to the God Damn Church while her Son starves and shares a shack with 10 other stinkin’ mental men’. Milson thought as he gritted his teeth in fury.

And, to make matters worse, he had to return home to arrange purchase of a coffin and headstone, he was informed. With what he had no idea. It seemed a wooden box was quite expensive nowadays and graves were ‘not permitted to go unmarked or without appropriate memoriam’, or so the funeral directors gasped upon enquiry. Two sticks held together in a cross with some yarn are “certainly not appropriate” apparently.

Milson was fucked. Again. Still. He needed money, and needed it fast before he had mortuaries and funeral directors after his blood. This meant only one thing: employment. Milson shuddered at this thought as psalm-soaked epiphanies seeped through his gin sodden brain.

“People are like shadows moving about. All their work is for nothing. They collect things but do not know who will receive them”.

Milson felt a river of rage fill his belly and swell until he felt nauseous. He couldn’t breathe, and then he could, and he was panting and pacing and growling like a mad man in heat. Milson lost it.

He picked up the bottle of gin and threw it against the frail fibro wall. It shattered and sent cascades of plaster, glass and alcohol all over Milson where he now lay sobbing below on the floor, curled up in a ball.

As Milson felt trickles of alcohol, tears and blood spill over his lips, he closed his eyes and whispered to himself as he slipped into unconscious sleeplessness.

“The Lord holds a cup of anger in his hand; it is full of wine mixed with spices. He pours it out even to the last drop, and the wicked drink it all”.

 

 

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