Lonesome

I drunkenly regarded a painting in the hall. Something ghastly, a pile of shapes that looked to me like corpses. Maybe they were daffodils. Somewhere in the manor a clock struck midnight. Its somber tones sounded sour as they trailed along the faded carpet. I lost count of the gunshot clangs its innards made, but I'm fairly certain it was 12. I knew I was the last one standing from the wedding party, the women had retired to one wing, the men in the other. And there I was, awake, somewhere between.

In the painful silence following the stroke of midnight, my attention was drawn away from the painting. I heard a voice. Yes, a voice, dampened by walls and my own drink. I sought it out, thinking I might find someone yet still awake to while away the morning hours. I'm a fairly insufferable drunk, or so the others had said. I just wasn't ready for the night to end.

Tracing my fingers along the wallpapered hall, I stumbled towards the voice. I tipped my glass as far as it would go and found I had completely drained it. I studied it for a moment and then set it down on a nearby table holding a vase. I heard it again, but this time there was music. A radio? The occasional crackle solidified my thinking. Maybe I would find someone enjoying a nightcap and a bit of jazz. I shambled further onward, my feet catching in the carpet.

I looked behind my shoulder as I rounded a corner. I felt I had walked for miles, but that horrid painting was still in view. I furrowed my brow at it, maybe from further away it would make more sense. The radio I had been trying to find was seemingly right beside me, around the corner.

I turned to see that I was not the only thing left awake at this hour. With arms and legs it drug itself forward towards me. Its mouths opened and shut, many lungs breathing all the air from around me. Fingers bent and grasped at me, and I felt its warmth against me. Lost amongst its folds and flaps was the radio, the speaker softly singing.