Another night alone. Another night with the company of a bottle and the dim glow of the tv barely penetrating the thick blanket of the night. He grunted as he reached for his trusty glass, quickly swallowing down the dark liquor.
Lifeless faces laughed and giggled on the TV, their enforced happiness a trusty reminder of what he once had. What many of us once had. The cap hit the floor with disgust as the bottle poured out the remnants of its contents.
Fuck, he muttered.
The extent of his drinking hit him as he stood up. The room swirled to the left as he swayed to the right. Stumbling slightly he headed towards the kitchen in the hope that it held more of what he needed. Piles of dirty dishes were quickly pushed aside. Doors were opened and slammed shut, their forgotten contents rising from their slumber with a rattle.
He settled for defeat and headed back to the living room, picking up his jacket and a pile of coins and notes that had been scattered atop the table. The door stood closed for awhile as he gathered his thoughts and collected the little soberness he had left.
It wasn’t going outside that he was delaying, more the neighbourhood, or what was left of it. His hand clasped the pistol tightly. During the day it was fine, the Enforcers patrolled and kept things from escalating. At night it was a different matter.
I haven’t written any kind of fiction since school, which is around 7 or 8 years ago. I don’t know why I tried this. Just struggling for something to write about and wanted to experiment.
Probably come back to this next week. I had and have no idea of a story, maybe that will make itself known?