[Perscription]

Synopsis: An Irish wake. One man trying to come to terms with his brothers suicide and his hatred for his wife. Amongst other things. Some strong language.
Authors note: I've never tried anything like this before so all comments and or suggestions are more than welcome, especially the deadpan critical ones.


My wife stood there telling this story, only I knew it to be a figment of her imagination. She was such a good liar that she was able to convince herself that what she was saying was actually the truth. And as she’s telling it I'm looking at her and I'm thinking 'Fucking hell, I really fucking hate you.' It's nothing, this story; it's completely harmless, but it's the fact that she’s telling it. It really begins to fucking annoy me. I think I want to smash her face in or something. Well maybe something not that drastic, no fuck it, smash her face in, that's what I want to do.



I've never hit her, never hit any woman, thankfully. I’m more an emotional abuser, it causes much more damage. But right now I just want to scream at her "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU STUPID BITCH!" and smash her face in. I’m sure that would go down a treat. We're standing outside my brother's house. He is dead inside; suicide apparently. That’s what the neighbors are calling it, anyway. Fucking nosy bastards popping in and out all day with sandwiches and tea. Like sandwiches and tea are going to make any fucking difference today. Anyway, back to this story. I need to explain this from the start, because I don’t think anyone could understand my anger otherwise, and even then it won’t make sense.

So, a few years back, my wife is reading this magazine. I don’t know which one; some pathetic women’s magazine with pictures of fat, skinny and pregnant celebrities, there’s this oneparticular article that catches her attention. It's a piece on body hair, and apparently it leads my wife to believe that if a man with light blonde hair on his body shaves it, the hair will grow back black. She makes some small remark about it, and I store it in my head. The thing is, my wife has actually forgotten all of this. She will not remember where she garnered this information from, but it is stored away in her little brain as fact. Fact. Fact. Fact. So here we are at my dead brother's wake (suicide, the neighbors are calling it in hushed tones and self conscious murmurs) and she has just plucked this story from God knows where. Somehow the conversation has moved onto body hair. Here she goes, all eyes upon her, all ears open:

"I have this friend called Dave, we, I mean ..." she looks up at me to verify this fact, I nod. (I don’t know Dave, first I've ever heard of him).

"One night, back in our college days, he'd had a bit too much to drink and was asleep on the couch topless, and one of the lads ran a razor blade across his back, shaving off his blonde hairs, and to this day he has a big streak of black hairs across his back where it was shaved."

She finishes the sentence almost in convulsions of laughter. The others assembled follow suit. As do I; however, I'm laughing at her. Pathetic. My wife is pathetic. What kind of mind does it take to come out with something like this? I don’t know if it’s meant to be a joke or an anecdote or what the fuck, whatever it is, it’s not funny, it’s not interesting and most of all it's not fucking true. I mean if you were going to make up a story at least make up a fucking good one. Jesus Christ. On top of it all this is my brothers’ wake and she’s talking about an imaginary Dave with an imaginary striped line of black hair across his imaginary back. Is this woman for real? Have I gone mad and just imagined her?

I need a drink.

I head inside. I hate this place. My mother is talking to one of my cousins, William, his name is. He's a prick, always has been. He's in politics now, so I've no doubt he is soothing my mother with the most wondrous lines of condolence any man has ever uttered.

"I'm so sorry for your troubles, tis very hard on ye all; sure, wasn’t he the life and soul of the place, always up to some mischief, he was too good for this world Maggie, he's above in Heaven now smiling down on your good self right now I'm sure. Don’t you think?"

And he clasps a tender hand to her shoulder and looks her solemnly and honestly in the eye. What a fucking wanker. My mother laps it up in her semi drugged, semi drunk state. I don’t blame her, he can be very convincing. I head to the drinks cabinet. I'm in a vodka mood today, I pour myself what is at least a triple or quadruple vodka and plop a bit of red lemonade in for good measure. Christine is nearby. I think she offered her sympathies to me. I was too busy staring at her chest to hear whatever insincere crap she has to say. I don’t even care if she notices, not today anyway. Maybe not ever again.

Not the fucking priest, anyone but the priest!


"Jim, how’re ya huldin upe? Tis bin a loong day fo ya now, your poor auld mam iss ine a terrible state of shockk. Wid God's help she'll make id through. And so will you Jim. Will you be giving the eulogy?"

Fuck, the priest.

"How’re ya father? Thanks for popping round, it means a lot to the family. Aye, the ma is fair hit by it for sure, has been a shock to us all. The eulogy? No I think I’ll leave that to Fionn; he has a better way with words. I’ll do a reading from the Book of Wisdom though."


He's speaking now again. I raise my glass to my lips and sip, and sip, and sip. I don’t hear a word he says. Now he has stopped speaking. I can see in his face that I'm supposed to be answering some question.

"Would you like a drink father?"

"Oh go on shur, if we cant drink now shur when can we" he chimes in.

"Maybe every other fucking day of the week at the altar in Gods name" I almost say but decide against it at the very last moment.

I pour him a black and white and leave him to it. Harmless auld fella, but I'm in no mood for him or his God today. I survey the room. Old people. Everywhere old people. They love funerals, wakes, deathbeds, anything to do with the dead. They're drawn to it, fascinated by it. I look at two old women speaking to each ther in lowered voices. They must be a both at least ninety years old. I have never seen them in my life. I imagine their conversation leading up to their arrival here:

"Biddy, did ya hear the news?"

"No Bridie, I'm only just after setting the fire and havent been outa the house all morning."

"Frank O' Connor's son died last night. Suicide imagine. Hung himself with a rope in the shed out back."

"A suicide? Fantastic, lets all go and see by how many years we've outlived whatever poor bollox lies there."

There is no one here I can tolerate, no one in the next room either. The hall is home to a few of my brothers good friends. Sound fellas the lot of them, but their mourning and my mourning are separate. I nod at them as I walk past.

"Alright for drinks lads?"

"Spot on kid, we'll look after ourselves, you've enough shite to be dealing with"

"Too right"

Too fucking right. I look in on my brother. Fionn, the youngest of us, and Aine, the eldest, are by the bed. I nod at them too. Aine, I think, is secretly loving every moment of this. She wants to control every facet of this funeral. She revels in the fact that people are going to feel sorry for her. Maybe it's because all her life people have paid little or no attention to her and now suddenly she’s cast into the limelight, the chief mourner, almost paralysed in grief.

"What a lovely Godly girl."

I think she can hear the sympathsers say in her head.

Fionn is upset. Fionn is unhappy. His brother is dead and he is upset and unhappy. This seems entirely reasonable to me. Good old Fionn, you could always rely on him for some normality. There is no ulterior motives. No particular angle that he is coming at this from. Thank God for Fionn.

I think about staying but decide against it. I really couldn’t listen to Aine whimpering and sniffling across from me for God only knows how long. I step outside again.

My wife. Please, God, not my wife.

"Hey darling"

Her voice grinds through my head. It is her most sincere tone. Which is to say she has practiced it enough to fool most people into thinking she is a kind and considerate person. I know better. She pecks me on the cheek and places what I presume is supposed to be a consoling arm around my waist. The closeness of her is sickening, I can barely breath. And I know too that she is also loving every moment of this. Attention, people, she’s not directly affected, but come the funeral, my wife will shed more tears than the entire congregation put together. I know this to be a fact. She really can turn on the water works and play sad like no one else. She will make our grief hers, belittle our grief with loud sobs and rivers of tears. I know she will. Maybe she doesn’t know it, but I do. I hate her. I really hate her tonight. She's speaking now, god only knows what bullshit is coming out of her mouth this time. It's over. After this week has passed, it's over. I’m getting out of this marriage one way or another. She can have everything, as long as she leaves me alone, she can have every god damn thing. And boy does she like things.

I go to my car and sit in. Silence. It has been a long day, the priest was right. My brother is dead. My brother is dead. My brother is dead. I am saying this over and over in my head. Trying to realize it. I understand what death is. I know who my brother is. I can say the sentence, comprehend its meaning. But still, it doesn’t seem real.

My brother is dead. My brother is dead. My brother is dead. No, it doesn’t seem real. He killed himself. He killed himself. He killed himself. He can't be, he couldn’t have. I have all the information, all the facts are laid out in front of me in a nice neat order. I can walk into the front room and look at his dead body. But still, it doesn’t seem real. I turn on the ignition and pull out slowly and quietly. I'm drunk, but I don't care. Part of me actually hopes to get pulled over by the Gardai. I drive about a mile to the Atlantic and pull in by the side of the road. I don't want tomorrow to come. I kill the ignition. The Atlantic roars against the beach, salt water specking the windshield from time to time as the bigger waves come rolling in. My brother is dead. He killed himself. Sleep.

I sleep.

['Ginnis]

Interesting piece. I liked your approach the the mental consciousness of the brother. The choice to create and antagonistic protagonist is a great one. His hostility was well placed and appreciated, it makes him all the more real. I only caution your opening paragraphs. It was rather dictated, as if purposefully spoken to an audience as opposed to be himself. Later on you lost that dictation, the aside factor faded. Work on being uniform with style throughout your piece for a more professional approach. On the whole though, great work. The language was fitting for internal characterization and the Irish accent was flawless. Nice job.

[Perscription]

Thanks vry much for your comments and for reading, I will definitely take what you have pointed out on board, after rereading I completely see your point and agree with you. I would never have noticed this otherwise. Cheers.

[Peppy]

The portral of a man in denial is convincing. I don't know how someone would react if their family killed themselves. It's all too strange for me.

In the story, I noticed you used a lot of "it's". I think you should tone it down, or use less of it by finding another way of wording your story. Plus, I noticed you missed some apostrophes on your its (and one cant).

Hmmmmmmmm... BRB maybe.

[RENA HANDS]

Should it not be...My Brother is (IS) Dead ?

I think…I’m more an emotional abuser, (it or which) causes much more damage. ?

What about…

But right now I (just) want to scream, ‘SHUT UP, YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH!’ ?

I think you should leave out ‘inside,’ we know that they are standing ‘outside’ his brother’s home. ?

I think too much use of ‘fuck,’ and the variations there of. You can be emotional, but make it count.

Where does this hatred for one’s wife come from? I would like to know more of the source of hostility* towards his family.

What about saying…

there is one particular article that she catches her attention. ?

I think ‘it’s a piece…

Are you missing punctuation after…but he priest ?

I think you mean ‘your poor auld mam…’? THough I suppose in a drunken state it really doesn't matter.

A spacing error with…in Gods name, the sentence following it.

A missed punctuation after…shed out back ?

I’m drunk(,) but I don(‘t) care.

I don(‘t) want tomorrow to come.

I thought some of your ideas/actions were a bit repetitive, but necessary for this situation. A very profound write you have here; the expression of speech, hateful (hostile) emotions of, for his family. All made for a thoughtful read. I will rate 4/5!

[Perscription]

Thank you very much for reading and commenting Peppy and Rena. I will take on board what both of you have said. I really appreciate your comments. The cursing stays i'm afraid though. Fuck is this characters word. He is'nt exactly one to summise his situation in the most elegant of ways.
I am writing a few follow up pieces to this, the next morning, which is the funeral, and then that evening, which will be a piss up, where I hope to explain the hatred of the wife in a bit more detail. Thanks again.

Wow. Amazing piece of writing. Technically you arent quite there yet, in fact you're a long way off, but without doubt there is immense talent here. A raw, brutal and challenging piece, that somehow manages to be both darkly comic and deeply insightful. Unfortunatley some of your paragraphas are a bit choppy and could do with being rewritten. On the plus side some of your sentences flow together beautifully. There is a wonderfully dark, almost comedic quality surrounding your primary character. He bounces off the page in a unique manner. I feel with a liitle bit of work this could be a truly fantastic read. Well done.

[tathi]

Originally Posted by Perscription

My wife stood there telling this story, only I knew it to be a figment of her imagination. She was such a good liar that she was able to convince herself that what she was saying was actually the truth. And as she’s telling it I'm looking at her and I'm thinking 'Fucking hell, I really fucking hate you.' It's nothing, this story; it's completely harmless, but it's the fact that she’s telling it. It really begins to fucking annoy me. I think I want to smash her face in or something. Well maybe something not that drastic, no fuck it, smash her face in, that's what I want to do.

what is she lying about specifically? he also wouldn't say that he is an emotional abuser even if he is one, he will try and justify his thoughts and the reader has to work it out for themselves

'who does she think she is? she is so full of shit. she never really liked him, the lengths that damn woman will go to get sympathy, what a fake! what an act! i feel like smacking her in the face! fuck! i'll wait for her to finish her story then i'll tell them what really happened and embarrass her in front of everyone, that will serve her right for being such a lieing bitch. i mean who does she think she is to try and hog the limelight like that at my own brothers funeral? can't she see how much pain i'm in!'

[Jimbalaya]

I read this some time ago, thought I commented on it, guess I didn't...or if I did, it didn't take. My apologies.

It was a very interesting read. I can't add too much more than what's been said already. One thing that I got hung up on a time or two was the "Irish accent". Maybe I'm just not used to reading it, I don't know. It did stop me a time or two and I had to re-read it a coupld of times before I understood what was being said. Like I said, that's probably just me.

No other issues that haven't been pointed out already. I think you have something here. You said you are going to post some follow up pieces that are connected to this? How far out are they? Looking forward to more.