Choices

Norman hadn’t had a drink in almost a year. He was dangerously dehydrated.

That’s not a joke. He was in the Australian Outback where he had been ever since the accident.

The light aircraft had crashed. Norman survived and Shane didn’t. The radio didn’t either, which buggered his chances of being rescued a little bit.

He’d headed in what he thought was the direction of the nearest town. It had been four days and he hadn’t got anywhere close to civilisation.

Now he had a dilemma. In front of him, in the ground, was a can of beer. An unopened can with no rust on it. It was even still in date, he’d checked. The question as to how it got there was irrelevant.

He was a recovering alcoholic, but he was also incredibly thirsty. Norman held the can in his hand and stared at it for fifteen minutes, wishing he’d found a bottle of water or can of lemonade instead.

He hooked his finger under the ring pull, but couldn’t bring himself to complete the action.

He placed the can on the ground and sat down next to it. He stared at his cylindrical nemesis.

Who would ever know? And who would judge him because of it?

He sat with a mouth as dry as, well a desert, and looked at the can. He imagined the taste of the beer and was transported back to his pub days. The good times and the bad times.

Fuck it, Norman thought.

He cracked the can open and lifted it to his mouth. He stopped right before the liquid sloshed out and wet his lips.

Before he knew what was happening he was pouring the can on to the floor.

Norman was found a week later just fifty yards from the empty can.