The old wooden shed tilted to the left against an older, gnarled oak. Spiderwebs cascaded down from the tree's branches and covered half of it. They were dewy from the morning fog when the old man went out there that morning. There was fog every morning down by the beach. It ate up all the wood and metal and a lot of the houses looked shabby, and the cars were all rusty in front of the houses of the people that hadn't sold yet.
Most people on the street were new, at least to the old man. He'd been there since 62'. Back then all the houses were new. Built on an air strip. He couldn't remember what that had been for. Most of the houses looked different now. New people kept adding more floors, fighting over that ocean view. The old man's house was the same. It hadn't even been painted since lung cancer took his wife in '78. The years after that were all cheap whiskey and cans of Dinty Moore. He liked how the label still looked the same. He didn't heat it up anymore; just ate it straight out the can. There were cans all over the coffee table, and ashtrays full of Kents.
The nail went through the first and second matatarsal of his right foot. It had been sitting there next to the weed wacker for God knows how long.
It didn't hurt at first. He still had a buzz on from last night, and his circulation was probably for shit. He probably had diabetes by now, God knows. He noticed when he saw the nail snag his trousers. They were the ones he didn't like because they were too long. Now the nail had made a small tear right above the cuff and he could see the blood soaking in where the nail was rubbing up against the fabric.
He limped back to the house and shut the sliding glass door. He closed the blinds, and pulled the big bottle of Dewar's 12 year out of the cupboard before he settled into his old chair. He drank, and he kept drinking. He woke up sometimes, and it hurt so much. He could see his bloody footprints; just the right foot, leading up to his chair. A big stain spread around in a circle on the tan rug under his foot.
Sometimes he could see his footprints, and sometimes it was too dark. He kept the bottle cradled in his lap so he wouldn't lose it. Once he was hungry, but it hurt so bad and he just kept drinking. He thought about his wife. Wouldn't it be nice to see her, again?
When the spasms started he didn't care, much. It hurt so bad, but he didn't mind. When the worst one came, he knocked over the bottle and broke some bones in his hand. He minded losing the bottle. There was a little left. The last spasm lasted for so long he forgot about anything else. He forgot about his wife, and he was just one big, writhing pain. When he felt himself drifting off he was glad.
Death Shed: A Single Tear