Happy New Year

CW: mentions of suicide

The champagne was poured early. The celebratory dinner had been served at 7:00pm sharp, crackers pulled around 8:00, the TV turned on at 10:00, but once 11:45 came, Arleen Walters let a bit of her nerve slip out with the bubbly five minutes early. 

Handson Walters, who was sitting a few feet away in the living room, did not notice his wife’s slip-up. He would not have cared anyways, but the rather significant amount of alcohol in his veins made it difficult to notice much of anything, besides the impendingly obvious of course.   

Arleen walked over to the living room and handed him his drink. She did her best not to stare at the clock hanging on the wall over the television. Her hand shook rather badly but both pretended not to notice as Handson set down his beer and accepted the elegant glass.

“Be careful with that,” she said to him. “These glasses were my grandmother’s, they’re older than me.” He looked down at the cup in his hand, imprinted with swirling diamonds. He’d never seen it before. 

Arleen patted his arm lovingly before leaning down and picking up the colony of beer cans settled around his recliner. She tried not to bite her lip as she strolled through their little house to the trash can. She’d taken the whole day to clean, and now, 13 minutes before midnight, she thought it might be the tidiest she’d ever seen it. 

Arleen walked back over to the living room and settled down on the couch. She spread the fabric of her best dress, a beautiful blue silk, nervously out on her lap. She and Handson had both dressed up for the occasion. Along with her dress she also wore her favorite pearls, and even the gold earrings Handson had gotten her as an anniversary present. He wore his best suit, 30 years old, but still as sharp as ever. 

As she smoothed out her dress, Arleen’s leg started tap tap tapping. Tap tap tap tap tapping away. She told it to stop but it didn’t. After a while she gave up, deciding to let it rebel and focus on what was in front of her instead.

She looked to the television, which unfortunately did not offer the distraction and normalcy she’d hoped for when she turned it on. She’d just have to make some herself.

“You know Handson, I think next year we should go to New York to watch the ball drop in person.” Her voice was butter but now her palms were starting to sweat.

“See!” She said, pointing a finger at the black and white static, “look how much fun they’re having!” Handson’s eyes found their way to the screen. He contemplated the monochromatic zigzags a while before saying slowly “Yes dear, we’ll do that.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the TV, stealing glances upward at the clock, before a sound broke through the ragged buzzing of the television. It was a wail, loud and mournful, likely from one of the neighbors. That sound and many others had become familiar to the two Walters over the last 4 days. It had become familiar to everyone. Arleen picked up the remote by her side and pointed it at the black and white screen in front of her. The buzzing loudened, burying the sounds of those far less composed than the two retirees watching static in their living room. 

By 11:53 the television’s full volume was not enough to cover the sound from outside. There were cries from the scared and sad, music and laughter from the young and unafraid, and the occasional boom or crash from the defiant. 

Arleen had never heard a gunshot in her neighborhood before 4 days ago, but lately it seemed that every couple of hours one would sound. She certainly didn’t blame them, she just wished they would end it somewhere that didn't interfere with the little act she was putting on for herself.

If she was being honest with herself, which she was trying very hard not to be, she would have acknowledged the fact that, that first day, she’d spent a long time contemplating how much weight a ceiling fan could hold. Better to do it yourself than wait for the clock. She decided against it though. She didn't have a good enough rope. 

At that moment one of those bangs, one of those sounds that had become all too familiar, went off so loudly that it must have come from right down the street. Before she knew it, Arleen had downed her fancy glass of champagne and began gulping down the rest of the bottle. She hadn't realized she’d brought it from the kitchen. 

“What,” she said to Handson, whipping the drink from her mouth, “do you hope for next year?” It took him a while to understand but then he replied with slurred words, “I hope it’ll be better than this one. I also hope,” he paused for a moment, eyes glistening, ''I also hope I get to see some people I haven’t in a long time.” 

“I hope,” said Arleen, tears blooming in her eyes as well, “that it does not hurt. That we will not suffer.” 

It was 11:57. Yesterday, Arleen had made sure to set every clock in the house to precisely the right second. Her and Handson’s hands held tightly together in the space between the couch and recliner. They each now held a freshly poured glass of champagne, gathered from what was left in the bottle. 

Both of them were staring unashamedly at the clock now. Its hands were starting to form one black line. 

It was better this way, Arleen thought, to go all together. For all that it would be, at least she would not be alone. Knowing this, however, did not stop her from vomiting on the beautifully vacuumed carpet. 

By 11:59 Arleen had wiped her mouth off on her lovely blue party dress. She was ready. The pressure between her and Handson’s hands might have broken her fingers, but she never let go to find out. 

“Happy New Year,” she said to Handson. 

“Happy New Year,” he said back.

They were just about to drink to their future when the end came. The glasses, the ones it had taken the end of the world to bring out of the closet, smashed on the floor. The arms that held them were gone, along with every other body part belonging to Arleen or Handson Walters. All that was left of them, all that was left of anyone, was a small heap of fine clothes, and a pile of vomit.