A Weight Beyond Bearing

The sun hovered over the sleepy city, having only risen an hour earlier. The streets were almost entirely empty, however on one street in particular there was something of note. On this street there was a ditch, and in this ditch there was a man. And he lay as still as a corpse.

Mason wasn't a corpse, although if appearance alone were to judge he would be considered no longer of this world. His clothes were tattered and torn, there were numerous cuts and bruises on his face, and there was dried blood in his short black hair. The morning breeze was picking up, creating a soft whistling sound that could be heard from the bottom of the ditch. And slowly, the corpse's eyes were now opening.

The moment he opened his eyes Mason experienced an intense feeling of vertigo, as if the ground was seizing up beneath him. He quickly shut his eyelids, out of breath as though he had just overexerted himself. And only then as he lay panting with his eyes closed did Mason begin to feel the pain.

His limbs were on fire. The back of his head was throbbing violently, and with every breath he took there was a lancing pain going across his ribs. If he coughed he wouldn't have been surprised to see blood.

He cautiously eased his eyes open again (realizing for the first time that they were badly swollen) and this time there was no dizziness. He turned his head slowly, cringing as the pain increased twofold. It was another moment of observation before he realized where he was.

Everything was a murky brown in color. The ground beneath him was covered sparsely with stagnant water, and across from him was the wide opening of a pipe. A drainage ditch, then. But how...

His nostrils were nearly flush with the ground, yet he smelled something other than dampness and dirty water. It was the distinct aroma of liquor. And it was coming from himself.

Drinking, then. So how the hell did I-

Images flashed through his mind, rapidly and with little order, creating a jumble of pictures that were all similar in content. Fists flying, flesh striking flesh, swears and curses exchanged. At some point he had ended up on the ground. Feet had kicked at him, cracking his ribs and bruising every inch of him. Hands grabbing him, carrying him, throwing him. Into a ditch, apparently.

And throughout it all he had been inebriated, his vision blurry and his footing unbalanced.

So I lost a fight then. But why would I be in one to begin with?

Mason wasn't the fighting type, yet for some reason he had chosen to fight several men.

More images floated into his mind's eye, the drinks he had gulped down at the bar, each one followed immediately by another. He attempted to recall the number but found it to be beyond counting.

Mason was never much of a drinker, yet for some reason he had downed a considerable amount of alcohol in a short period of time.

Noticing a length of cloth lying a short way to his right, he attempted to grab it but desisted when his arm screamed in protest. He settled for squinting at it until he was able to discern the pattern on the fabric. It was his tie, half submerged in a puddle of brown water. So he had been dressed formally, but why? He winced, straining to remember. And then he did.

He had just attended the funeral of his father.

As he thought entered his mind he felt an abrupt drop in temperature. A sudden coldness and emptiness afflicted him. The last time he had spoken to the man...

No, he didn't want to think about that. Instead he focused on getting out of the ditch.

Mason felt the sun bearing down on him as he attempted to pick himself up. In the distance he could hear the laughter of children as they played, enjoying the weather. The weather... it mocked him. It was representative of a peace that was now beyond his grasp.

His attempt to rise proved futile, but the mounting grief was too much. He felt like the ditch around him was filling with it, welling up over his head and drowning him. He needed to get out.

Like a worm he crawled to the side and began trying to climb despite the protests of his body. His progress was slow and arduous, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. He was perhaps halfway up when the memories returned, attacking the momentary steadiness of his mind.

His last conversation with his father... it had been a heated discussion. Harsh, regrettable words had been spoken. And then Mason had stormed out, never to speak to the man again. Each year that had followed had brought with it thoughts of reconciliation. But there was time, there would always be time later to make amends.

Not anymore. His father was gone, and with him any chance of bridging the gap that had formed between them.

With a tremendous effort Mason hoisted himself over the edge, and collapsed painfully in a heap on the gravelly sidewalk. His face had hit the ground hard enough that some of the small rocks littering the road had added new scratches to his jawline and cheek.

But he did not care about that. The grief he had sought to escape, it had ridden on his back and escaped the ditch along with him. It was a weight beyond bearing.

Hearing the sound of running feet, he looked up with an effort to see someone approaching.

"Oh my God, you need the hospital!"

Mason smiled grimly, displaying multiple cuts on his swollen lips.

"I don't need a hospital. I need to speak to a dead man."

Above them, the smiling sun continued to mock Mason, shining down with a warmth that defied the frozen emptiness of what his world had become.

WORD COUNT: 1000

SUBMISSION FOR WRITER'S CRAMP 5/9

PROMPT: Write a story or poem with a character who is disappointed by all the beautiful weather.