Chapter 3: Floating in Yesterday

Henry returned from his daydream wearing the same miserable grimace he had worn walking out of DaVotti's office that fateful day. His hands were clenched in a fist on his chest. Frozen electricity stabbed his back. The old man's eyes grew wide with suspicion his splashing hands confirmed. The water level had breached his bed. It was a simple one person cot, but it stood over a two feet tall. There wasn't much time left.

Henry sat sent his boots splashing in the water yet again. Shivers came like the blinking of his eyes. He was getting weak and he knew it. The memories had provided a brief break. Henry was elated enough to ignore the fresh icy shocks to his knees. Could he ignore it? He wanted to ignore it.

Henry allowed the slightest admittance to his helplessness just so he could cuss those he felt put him there. "You goddamn bums! This is no way for a soldier to die!" Tears glossed his vision. "I did what no one else could do! I was a soldier! I never missed a target, goddammit!" Henry sat up straight and kept the tears from flowing. He sniffled and coughed sending a cloud of exhaust to float away and dissolve. Anger didn't help the situation, but it provided the best distraction.

Henry thought about his story and the water level. He shot up from his cot with speed half his age. He splashed loudly, sea water spilling into his galoshes, yanking all plugs out of the wall. Fortunately, there weren't very many. Henry had become accustomed to quite a subsistence lifestyle. This was a solid example of that lifestyle saving his life. Henry smiled having gained true satisfaction from that idea, that truth. He'd love to gloat to someone how their doubts were wrong. But he would be dead soon. He could only enjoy the gloating in his mind.

In his mind, he knew he was right. Henry had been right all along. To Hell, with any skunk breath boss telling him how to live. Nothing was ever good enough. They'd never let him up. They'd never respect him like they could some brainless bully that was good at breaking legs or smashing faces. Those greasy chimps only respect their own. They'd never accept him no matter how much he tried. Henry understood that now. But before that understanding he had tried a helluva lot.

The old man stood in his kitchen, leaning on a buckling plastic wood top counter, something only a water beaten trailer would have. Cold water, mere degrees above ice, dried on his legs and back as he stood up. His galoshes wore high, but even they only had about four inches left before that half frozen water began pouring into his boots. Then hypothermia wouldn't take long at all. He might as well dive into the sea at that point. Henry smiled wickedly with this thought and felt a surprising welcome sense of temptation towards the scenario. He walked forward blindly and stopped when reached the opposite wall of the kitchen. He laid his hand on the wall and leaned on one leg. Fresh gruesome thoughts danced in his head like gingerbread men.

Suddenly his leg burst through the floor. Henry sank and yelled out in panic which was soon unfounded. The trailer floor had been submerged for over a week. Saturated with salt water, the floor softened like skin wrinkles. As Henry considered it all he was shocked everything hadn't fell through the floor all ready. He lifted his leg gently and put his hands against the wall to absorb the weight.

He stepped backwards lightly and proceeded to do so as his last hours continued. But that still didn't stop the floor from collapsing, and little by little, plank by plank, it did.