The Writer – Part 2

As the pain shot through his body and adrenaline coursed through his veins, inch by inch he slowly attempts to pull out the shard of glass protruding out of his leg. As the sweat drips from his brow and his hands shake, he began feeling nauseous as he immediately let go of the jagged shard to calm his nerves.

“Come on, you can do this” he says to himself, as he takes quick, shallow breaths. Gripping the shard once more as the familiar feeling of pain covers his body, “ugh, ahh” his screams are deafening, his spine is tingling, teeth chattering. He firmly grips the piece of glass and with a hesitant tug, he pulls the shard out in one swift pull.

Dropping the glass next to his leg, he lets out a cry of relief, and quickly tightens the ripped-up cloth around the wound. Feeling woozy, light-headed and faint, his vision begins to tunnel as he falls from his chair and lands on the cold, grey concrete floor, slowly passing out from the pain.

 “Drunk, again are you?” He hears a disapproving, familiar voice off in the distance. He tries to adjust his eyes to the blinding light. “What?” he asked, confused and afraid. “Seriously, we are going to be late and your drunk and passed out! wake up!” The voice said in an angered shrill.

Attempting to adjust his eyes to the blinding light, the familiar voice got louder and deeper in an almost demonic sense, that echoed throughout the room, when suddenly the white light vanished, and blackness was all that he could see.  A sudden feeling of wetness covered his body and a strong aroma of alcohol filled his nose. Choking, he gasps for air as the liquid rises higher and higher.

Barely able to hold his head above the acidic, brown liquid, he attempts to scream for help, but his voice is not there. His heart races as he tries to comprehend what is going on before he falls into an endless abyss, drowning in the liquid.

Quickly shooting up and gasping for air, he awakes, confused as he surveys his surroundings and pats his body all over. He turns over onto his back and rest his head on the concrete floor, rubbing his eyes “A dream, what the fuck?” He mutters to himself in panic and relief. Still feeling cold and wet as he looks down at his leg.

The rag stained in red and a small puddle of blood laid beneath him, he turns over onto his side and places his hands on the table and slowly pulls himself up onto his burgundy red chair. He sits heavily as his heads sways back and forth, feeling weak and tired, his gaze fixated on a bottle of whiskey sitting on his shelf. Slowly reaching for the half-filled bottle, he grabs it and cracks open the cover and presses the bottle against his dry, cracked lips and takes a swig. “ah!” He whispered as he looks at the bottle, shaking his head in disapproval. He whispers to the bottle ” this is your fault” as he pours a little whiskey on his wound.

Placing the cover back on the bottle, he takes a moment to reflect back on his morning, from his first cup of coffee to his 4th drink of whiskey. He sat in reflection, his gaze still fixated on the brown bottle with black lettering and a white label. Remembering the fight, he had this morning with his wife. The hateful things he said, the tears that filled her eyes, and the loss of love leaving her heart. He knew he had lost who he was, and when he became this inebriated monster, he not only lost himself, but he lost her.

Tears filled his eyes as he silently weeps to himself, knowing if he doesn’t escape his office in the dark, gloomy basement, he would die leaving her with only the most recent memory of what he had become, not who he once was.

In a sudden rage, he quickly grabbed the bottle and threw it against the wall. The glass exploded, spraying whiskey all over the concrete floor, and as if a 1000 just fell from his back, he felt relieved, and looked back at his computer screen, opened his word document and began writing a letter to his wife.

“To my dearest love”

“As I sit here in pain, frightened that I will not make it out of this alive, I felt the need to leave this letter behind in-case my hopes of escape fail. And although I am terrified of death, I am more terrified of not seeing you again. I am terrified that you will only remember the recent version of myself, the drunk mess that blamed his problems onto you when the only problems I had been caused by me. I am sorry.  All I ever wanted to be was a writer in this life, but it wasn’t until these recent hours that the only thing I should have been is a better husband to you. And while i may not escape this nightmare, I will leave this world with pleasant memories of you and I hope you remember the person you fell in love with, not the monster that I have become. I am Sorry, I love you.”
Love, Your husband.

As a tear falls from his eyes and splashes against the keyboard, he hangs his head in shame and cries. Wishes he was a better husband, a better man. Trying to find the strength to escape, trying to find the energy to stand, trying not to die and for the first time in a long time, he was trying to live as the man he once was.

He Tried.

By Lucas Durelle




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