The Empty Glass in My Hand (short story)

 

The Empty Glass in My Hand

First published as 'The Empty Glass' in A Coup of Owls Spring 2026 15/03/26

 I find myself standing in the dark at the window, staring down at the lonely city streets, with no memory of who I am. My head pounds in agony. Every muscle in my body aches. My bones throb. Even the orange glow of the sodium streetlights stings my eyes.

There is a glass in my hand. It’s empty. Yet I’m assailed by the stench of alcohol and cigarettes that permeates me.

It’s not hyperbole to repeat that I don’t know who I am. I don’t. My name escapes me through a fogginess that seems to cloud my vision; I can’t make out my face in the glass. I’m a ghost haunting the city, haunting myself. Or perhaps I’m too hungover, too drunk, too tired, and perhaps the streetlights are too bright to make out any clear image in the window’s vague reflection.

I am alone.

There’s no one outside, just the quiet, dead streets. Rundown cars and potholes. Dirty pavements and piled-up trash. Inside, I can hear the drip of a tap over the guttural growl of my wheezing lungs. It’s painful to breathe, but I continue.

I turn around and see an apartment just as destitute and decrepit as the city I saw through the window. There’s a sofa which has seen better days. Laundry heaped on a chair. A television with a cracked screen. A lopsided lamp. There’s an unmade bed, barely a bed, against the wall. I move closer, the floorboards protest my unsteady gait, and I notice stains on the mattress, visible even in the gloom. The pathetic blemishes aren’t dark enough to be blood or shit, but from their position, I can tell which bodily fluids begat them.

I feel sick.

I realise I’m still holding the empty glass, and I set it down on the coffee table in the centre of the room. It fits in amongst the partially eaten Chinese takeaways, the overflowing ashtrays and empty bottles that metastasise on its surface. The table stinks of mould, another virulent reek attacking my senses.

I follow my deformed shadow to the bathroom and stagger through its open doorway. I’m dizzy, and I use the wall for support. I approach the mirror over the fractured ceramic sink, eager to see if I recognise my reflection. I am disappointed. A stranger looks back at me with bloodshot and tired eyes, his features dimly lit by the amber light coming in from the street. His face is old and gaunt, with deep, shadowy crags carving his features. His hairline is receding, greying. The man is ugly. Worn out. He wears his life on his face.

I vomit repeatedly, painfully, into what’s left of the sink. Acid burns my throat. The puke is brown and watery, it reeks of booze, and it drips through the cracks in the porcelain and onto my shoes, onto the grimy floor. I find it hard to care. My head is spinning. I still hurt. My diaphragm trembles.

I lift my head and stare at the stranger again.

I don’t know who I am.

I wonder if the stranger I see in my reflection is really worth knowing or if my amnesia is a mercy.

Something catches my eye in the mirror, beyond the stranger’s head, a glint, and my eyes are drawn to the bathtub behind me. It’s full, almost overflowing. The tap drips, causes ripples in the water. It shimmers. I cry out when I realise what’s sitting in the tub, as I see the undulations distort around it, and I fall to the floor in shock.

There’s a body in the bath.

It takes me a few moments before I stand back up, before I can get my panicked breaths under control. My heart thunders, and I can’t stop it.

It takes me more moments before I dare to peer into the bath again.

There is definitely a body. A corpse. A man. The water is almost black – blood, I think, it has to be blood – but the true colour of the liquid eludes me in the faint orange light. I don’t want to look at his face, but I do. He’s another stranger. His expression pained. Pale. Distraught. A frozen death mask with rolled-back eyes and a distorted grimace. It disgusts me. He disgusts me. There’s an empty glass on the side of the bath, an angry knife, lithe as a predator, sharp and serrated, lies sated next to it. A drained whiskey bottle watches over the scene.

I wonder if I killed this man.

I don’t know who he is any more than I know who I am.

Does it even matter?

I stumble a little closer, realising there’s puke on my hand from where I fell on the floor. I wipe it on my shirt and notice the fabric is already wet, but my thoughts are more concerned with what’s in front of me than the state of my clothes. I can’t stop myself from staring at the stranger in the bath. He haunts me in the shadows of the dark bathroom, the amber streetlight barely reaching in from outside, only a light caress on his vile face. The dead man’s eyes look eternally inward, but mine are fixed on his body. He’s fully dressed, drenched with the dark concoction.

I stop right next to the tub.

Part of me wants to join him in the water.

I resist.

I hear someone hammering on the front door of the apartment. Shouting. Clamouring. Trying to get in.

I ignore them. The body in the bath is hypnotic, mesmerising. My attention is clenched in its allure.

I can’t look away.

This place is cold now. Maybe it was always cold. There’s vapour on my breath. Goosebumps on my skin. I shiver. The bathtub stinks of metal and rot.

I don’t know who I am.

The body is gone, and the water is clear. I’m holding a glass in my hand. It’s full. Whiskey.

The person outside is screaming now, thumping and banging, desperate.

It’s too late.

My head pounds in agony. Every muscle in my body aches. My bones throb. It’s painful to breathe. To live.

I step into the bath.