V - The mental bar is almost touching the ground.

This could be an affectation of pathos.

I shift my weight, rise to the surface and pull in my knees to my chest. I rest my chin on my crossed forearms and think for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Then I think about beer and decide I want to get shitty.

I steel myself for incremental movement and snake my arm over the side of the bath tub, armpit hugging the lip. My fingers swash the wavering light of warm kerosene and mingled gloaming. I find what I hope is a towel, but is really just my oxford and I dry my hands.

Reaching for my father's pocket watch, I grasp and pull on the encasement. The watch chain is drawn taut and snags on the the chair.

The filaments surrounding the push crown make a dry pop and give.

A momentary glint as my brass heirloom breaks off at the top and the watch bow falls into the darkness along with the chain.

Dammit.