Never Again

His first conscious thought was to tell himself that no matter what he had to keep his eyes shut. Perhaps that would buy enough time for his alcohol fogged brain to try and remember where he was and hopefully whether he was alone in the bed. And if he wasn't alone maybe he could buy enough time to be able to remember her name. In the meantime he could not afford to give any indication that he had awakened from his stupor. It had been another short night of fitful sleep, tossing and turning, not even the sleep of a man who had tried to drown his demons with alcohol. The fact that each of his fists were grasping as much of the sheets as he had been able to gather only confirming his nightly struggle. Another example, if any more were needed, of the depth of his nightly struggle with his demons. Worse, he hadn't even opened his eyes before he began to feel the return of the pain that was the cause of this. Or perhaps it was the excuse for this. Regardless of the cause it was back. That familiar feeling that he almost always woke to, whether he was alone or not. He really didn't know how to describe it other than a hollow ache deep down in his gut. To him there was no way to describe it other than a feeling of loss.

Before he could allow himself to open his eyes, he made one more effort to gather his wits about him, trying to remember where he was. Was he in his own bed, or was he somewhere else? Eyes still closed he took the time to listen for a bit, trying to bridge that netherworld between the prison of his dreams and the harsh reality of another dawn. Finally, despite his reluctance to do so he carefully opened his eyes. Taking a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to his surroundings, he found himself in what appeared to be familiar surroundings, the prison of his bedroom. As he expected the room was still dark, but there was a hint of grey beginning to creep around the edge of the east facing window. Carefully extending an arm he was able to ascertain that as he had thought he was the only occupant of the bed. While that would make the rest of the morning less complicated it didn't change his routine much. All his senses told him that once again he had drunk far too much the night before, stayed out far too late. His mouth felt and tasted like what he imagined licking a sand dune would taste like. And his head, while it didn't hurt too badly, was warning him not to make any sudden moves or there would be consequences. From where he lay, on his back, apparently diagonally across the bed, being careful not to move, scarcely daring to breath, he could vaguely make out unfamiliar shapes where the furniture should be. Apparently, the irregularity of the shapes must be because there were various items of clothing draped over them. Staring at them, he finally was able to discern that they were, his own familiar items, spread out in a random pattern. Likely they were where he had dropped them as he had undressed as he staggered his way from the doorway to the bed. Just the mental effort required to make that determination had exhausted him. He dropped his head, although collapsed would be more accurate, back onto the sheet as gently as he could manage. After collecting himself for a minute he was able to muster his strength enough that he dared to raise his head again and look around, trying to find a clock. Once found then he had to understand what the position of the illuminated hands meant. He briefly considered that the right thing to do would be to get up and fix himself some breakfast. The mere thought however was almost enough to make him ill. Enough so that, even though he was not a religious man, he offered up a promise to whatever deity would listen that he would never engage in such behavior again. That precaution taken he had almost satisfied himself that he needed to make the effort, when the stillness was shattered by the ringing of a telephone, his phone.

Not only was it ringing, the blasted thing just would not stop ringing, no matter how many pillows he pulled over his head in desperation, or how much he cursed it under his breath. Worse he knew that not only would it not stop; he knew who was on the other end of the line. Jim Strange called every morning, and every morning he refused to give up until his call was answered. Sometimes he wondered whether Jim was just being a friend, or, was he curious to see if he had spent the night alone. No matter the effect was the same, when he finally surrendered and answered no amount of screaming, no amount of hateful, hurtful invective hurled at him would prevent his calling the next day.

This had been the way his life had been ever since she died. People trying to help him, in various ways, and his rebellion against their efforts. He was under no illusion that most of them did it out of loyalty to her memory, not for him. He was aware of the kind of difficult, wounded man he had been before her. She had come so close to healing him, so close that he could almost taste it. But now there was nothing but a feeling of emptiness. That something precious had been snatched away from him. The feeling that without her he would never again be alive.

He wasn't naïve enough to not realize that each day like this he was squandering what she had worked so hard to achieve. Wasting it on alcohol and women that could never equal what had been wrenched away from him.

He finally was able to gather enough energy to reach the blasted phone and lift the handset from the receiver, before letting it fall to the floor. Then making a supreme effort he was able to swing his legs over the side of the bed before he sat up. He was only able to remain like that for a few moments before he fell backwards onto the mattress. Looking up at the ceiling, slowly being revealed to him as the light from outside slowly spread across the room, he could only think of one thing. "what the hell am I going to do?"