Christopher Marks: Kiss of Life

Having grown up in Dublin and spent nearly all his life there, the charm that the tourists seemed to find in the place had shown itself for a sham. Hitting the age of nineteen, the city just started to feel too small. He’d never been one for open spaces and green things, he was a city boy through and through and revelled in the fact that on any given night, any given thing could happened. Alcohol just seemed to make this chaotic little pleasure that bit more interesting.It was a crying shame he’d had not a penny to call his own.

University also began to bore him. There was only so much he could tolerate the dullard lecturers droning on about the Reformation Act of 1832. He thought he was interested in history, but having started at Trinity College, he discovered drinking. Or at least proper drinking that wasn’t half a pint of shandy while his dad watched the football. Going off the rails didn’t even come close. Maybe it was due to his Irish heritage, or simply because of his fly-by-the-seat attitude to life, but he hit the bottle with reckless abandon. He’d wake up and start drinking, and wouldn’t stop until he woke up the next morning on the grubby floor of some strange student flat, only to find something to drink that would take the edge off his bloody hangover.

And so, Chris spiralled like a plane with one engine, closer and closer to the edge of that daunting precipice. That one that when people crossed the line it, they never came back. It was just another night for Chris, but this time, things got weird. He’d drunk a whole hell of a lot. Too much. He was sure there’d be some kind of chart on the internet that would say that’d he’d technically drunk some much high volume alcohol that his body should be dead. But hey, a year or two of conditioning hadn’t all been for nothing right?

“So. What’s yer name, love?” He asked, leaning close to the pretty redhead.

“Sarah... How about you?” She replied. American! God, he loved American’s. And she had that southern twang. It sent him wild. Of course he didn’t mention that, and was incredibly adept at hiding it.

“Call me Chris, it’s easier that way. So where’re ya from? Definitely not round here, I can tell that much” He followed up with a devilish little grin. She smelled good too, he couldn’t quite place it.

She eyed him a little, as if she was trying to gauge his intentions. After holding his gaze a while, she seemed satisfied, nodding unconsciously to herself. “Texas. Y’know, the deep south.” There it was! A shadow of a smile as the corner of her mouth crept up a touch. Damn, now he was imagining her dressed up in a checkered summer dress, hair mussed up as she gazed into his eyes from where she lay, a few pieces of hay in her hair, that red flush of satisfaction in her cheeks and her breathing heavy like--- He snapped out of it.

“Sorry about that, you just remind me an awful lot o’someone I used t’know. I’ve always wanted to visit the states, never quite got aroun’ t--”

“SHOTS!” Called a voice from across the room. He was beginning to feel the effects of the two ecstasy pills he’d taken earlier, and the idea of a round of shots was sounding more and more appealing. He loved alcohol. He really did. He looked over at the Texan and smiled.

“You game? Because I am if you are...” He grinned wryly, and she responded with an affirmative shrug. Someone had lined up near on a hundred of those small, disposable shot glasses, and a group of three had nearly finished filling them all with some unknown liquor. All that Chris could tell, was that it looked like water, but certainly didn’t smell like it.

“First to five wins, arright?” He asked, looking over at Sarah.

“Sound’s good to me, boy.” She replied with a smirk. They stood before the table and both wrapped fingers around their first.

“On the count of three.” Said Chris. “Three!” He slammed back the first shot, and the second, only then stopped to break for a split moment, and laughed at the expression on her face, all screwed up as though she’d sucked a lemon. Well, it was definitely vodka. Cheap vodka. On to shot three, down the hatch, and then four. Well now four didn’t go quite to plan. He lifted it, it even reached his lips, but suddenly the thumping beat seemed to swim in his ears, and things in his line of vision began to melt together uncomfortably. Blink. Time seemed to slow. Blink. He hit the floor. Blink. There was a scream. Blink. Sirens. Blink.

He laid there on the floor. His heart wasn’t beating.

“Announce death, oh-three forty-eight hours.”

Whatever it was, some kind of desire from beyond the grave to simply continue or something wholly more impossible, it began to beat again. Thud-dunk. Thud-dunk.

“H-hold up. No that’s... That’s completely impossible... We’ve got a pulse here! Oxygen!”

The paramedics who had been preparing to remove the his body swiftly changed their task, wheeling over the large cylinder complete with facial mask on the end of some plastic tubing.
Someone leaned over him and...And kissed him. God, he hoped it was the pretty American. He felt his lungs stutter into life, yet he hadn’t particularly realised that they’d stopped in the first place. No, it wasn’t the Texan, but it was a kiss. The kiss of life. He’d died, he’d really died, actually dead and then come back. Chris suddenly broke into a cold sweat and his heart rate began to hammer, faster faster, too fast. He should’ve been dying again, that important muscle simply wouldn’t be able to take the strain.

There was a rush and his vision not only blurred but actually seemed to lose all shape and colour, like one of those spinners you made in primary school with a circle of paper and a pencil stabbed through the middle, and when you spun it, you realised that all the colours, when blended together, made white.

He fell with a thump, the ground beneath him was wet, hard and cold. And definitely not where he had been a moment ago.

“Wha’ the fuck is go--”

And again his world blurred. There was that nauseating shift again and he blacked out.







One month later - Los Angeles, CA.


The ice clinked into the glass, followed swiftly by a generous measure of Southern Comfort and minimal splash of Coke from the multi-tap. He slipped one of those short straws into the glass he slid the glass over the bar.

“Six bucks, mate.” He said. Despite the six months in LA, his accent hadn’t worn off a scratch, that this Irish brogue marking him out.

“Yeah, well I don’t really feel like paying... Mate.” The man sneered at Chris, that note of derision in his voice. Chris wasn’t a big guy by any means, and that lead a lot of people to try and take advantage. “I think this one’s on the house, huh?”

“Yeah, well how about you pay up, or you get the fuck out?” He cut in, the tone of his voice implying that those really were the mans only two options. “Now if you ain’t gonna pay, or if yer thinkin’ of startin’ some trouble, just get your rude arse outta here.”

With surprising speed for the man’s stregth, as he was a large kind of guy, he picked up the glass and threw it. Out of instinct Chris’ hand flew up and with a crash of blinding pain cracked square into his forehead. The force of the heavy glass floored him, and he had to blink the sparks of light from his vision. He could hear the sounds of a swiftly ending scuffle but could only see the shapes of the rows of glasses beneath the counter. Touching a finger to his forehead, it came away with a dab of blood. “God fuckin’ dammit. Some people.” He said, pressing palms to the ground and pushing into a stand.

His pocket vibrated, silently of course as he was working. But he was about to get an injury break, and so having slid off to the staff room to sit down, he pulled the cell from his pocket.

1 New Message Received from Withheld.

It was an address. He’d had enough of this night. They wouldn’t need him anyway, it was a tuesday. Slinging on his leather jacket, Chris left.