2019-08-24 - Head Count

38 total bottles, lined up by liquor type, brand and if necessary volume line the counter of Easton's kitchen island. A pad of paper in his hand, the counting has gone from a mental checklist meant to ensure he could at least feign control of his drinking to physical tally weekly ritual. He's 5 short. It doesn't make any sense. How does the count keep coming out five short, that's not possible. His counts are precise, both tracking while drinking and taking a before and now after count. He recounts, rechecks the paper and still can't account for 5 whole bottles.

"It should be 43."

As he says the number out loud Easton gets an eery creeping sensation at the edges of his mind. It's like he knows where 'this' is going even if he doesn't want to admit it to himself.

The are five missing in the lineup. Five are just gone.

He closes his eyes, curses at himself and the ridiculousness of the thought. He sets the notepad down on the counter and shakes his head, so he misplaced some bottles, drank more than he meant to, so what. It's fine and he will just keep better track next time. He has the cigarette in his lips and is lighting it shakily in the kitchen even though he meant to only smoke out on the balcony. He makes his way out to the balcony and forces himself to look out over the ocean.

But it doesn't take long until the the whispers in the back of his mind start to solidify into taunting questions. Questions that are ridiculous and utterly serious at the same time. <<How many would you say are nearly empty?>> It's the opening salvo that Easton knows is a trap, and he tries to will himself not to count. He knows the number. He knows why it's asking. It? Him? They?

<<How many would you and your buddies have deemed wounded soldiers. Bottles left forgotten at the end of the night. Bottles that should have just been finished off.>>

Easton's eyes easily scan the thirteen bottles with only a scant bit left at the bottom. How did that happen? That's just his mind looking for patterns.

And then the barrage of questions really comes:
* Did he leave them like that on purpose?
* Did he hide five bottles from himself?
* Is he recreating his platoon's loses in booze?
* Is he losing his mind?
* Why is he holding his Sig Sauer M11?

Easton blinks and looks down at the gun in his hand and pops out the magazine and then ejects the cartridge from the chamber and confirms the chamber is empty. The entire motion is so automatic he would struggle to do it only in part. The gun and magazine are returned to their place under the kitchen counter. The bottles are put away in their cabinet. Easton grabs his keys and heads out of the apartment, walking quickly trying to ignore the now all encompassing thought screaming in his head.

"43. There should have been 43."