By Arran James Grant
Altogether, the honeymoon lasted eleven days. That’s including the entire day I spent wistfully staring at my wife's neck, totally lost, and the night I ran riot on the beach, filling garbage bags full of sand and dead crabs and seaweed, heaving them up to our room and filling the bathtub. I drank red wine almost exclusively and while she slept I would pour small amounts onto her body and she wouldn't respond. I would reply in short barks to other guests when I was spoken to, and they would recoil in terror. I ordered drinks in a language I invented, and would eventually just point at the bottle, my hands flailing. I made then lost a lot of money gambling in the casino, I don't even know how much. I wore a tuxedo for four days and only once did my wife ask why I hadn't taken it off. Days seeped into nights. This lasted for eleven days, and there was no cure. I felt like I had been doomed somehow and that life was ending, but then in the morning it would begin again, and I never knew if it was a good thing or not. It constantly felt like something was bubbling under the surface of everything, under her and under me. Could she see the regret in my face each morning as I stared into the mirror? Did she sense some kind of way out as we stood on the sand watching the lights of the city flicker in the distance? I asked the receptionist in the hotel we stayed in to call a cab to take me into the city and on our way the driver told me, in broken English, about a gigantic sea creature that had mauled some local villagers and when he slowed the car to a crawl on a deserted road and pointed out to the crisp clear ocean I was immeasurably disappointed that I saw absolutely nothing. I strolled through narrow cobbled streets and nodded hello to pretty girls and never took my sunglasses off and drank decent tequila. I found an outdoor market and browsed through cardboard boxes that contained vinyl records and old novels. I managed to buy weed from a man named Salvatore in a bar who told me about a shipwreck in the far north of the island that was haunted by the ghosts of drowned sailors and because I was wearing sunglasses he didn’t notice I was never really making eye contact. I felt like I had been gone an eternity but when I got back to the hotel my wife was still sleeping, a result of the seemingly endless medication. I opened the window to the balcony and sat on the edge of the bed and I removed my sunglasses and I stared out at the night and into black waves I could hear crashing on rocks and altogether, the honeymoon lasted eleven days.
Arran James Grant is a poet and short fiction writer from Scotland in the United Kingdom. He began seriously writing around six months ago, is currently putting together his first collection of writing and has so far been published in an online magazine and a collection of poetry. He can be found wasting time he should be spending writing on Twitter at @ArranJamesGrant.