I awoke to the sound of rain, flat pale light casting odd shadows here and there. I rolled over on to my back and scratched myself. Out of habit, I listened for signs that she might be awake; the clatter of breakfast dishes, the shower, her footsteps up and down the hall. I heard nothing and almost went back to sleep. And then guilt kicked in. I forced myself to stay awake and listen to the silence.
“You did this”, I thought to myself. “This is your doing”.
I wanted a drink so badly my chest began to tighten, my fingers gathering into useless fists. I wet my lips and cleared my throat. Desperation began creeping in. I let it.
There remained a solitary bottle of whiskey in my house, hidden in the kitchen. I mentally walked myself over to it, and poured a drink. At first, it'd be like swallowing fire. And then, a warm rush would spread from my middle, unknotting everything. I'd forget how to be stressed. I'd forget to be depressed. I'd be sloppy but centered. “Whiskey Sure”, my daughter called it. And, even then, I would know that it wouldn't last. Still, I'd be free enough to be happy. For just a minute. Just one. Just enough to get my head on straight. To start the day. Just enough to get loose before work. Just a swallow to get nice and easy before bedtime. Just one. That's it. That all I wanted.
What I needed, however, was quite another thing.
What I needed was to get completely stinking drunk. Before my shower. Before breakfast. Before crawling out of bed. Before the day had a chance to get it's hooks in me. Before I remembered what a loser I was, what a con and a sham of a father I had become. Before I had a chance to feel guilty and lonely and love-starved. Before I looked in the mirror and saw what I was. Before regret. Before self pity. Before I opened my eyes.
Before she opened hers.
I lay there contemplating the whiskey for an eternity before finally getting out of bed and stepping into my slippers
“Just one”, I said aloud, and started toward the kitchen.
* * * * *
I stared at the bottle for the better part of an hour, mumbling to myself like a crazy person.
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