He would often just sit in his car, asking questions to himself. There was usually no answer, and when there was, it was just what he wanted it to be. Praying to a God that he never had faith in and sipping on whiskey, the most common scene in his life now. All he had left was an empty six-pack of promises and his narcissistic cigarettes. Just when he would start to let go of things, hope would call him back inside for another drink. He’d regret it the next morning.
"Sir, you can’t park here. It’s past twelve. Go home."
The officer’s flashlight stung his now bloodshot eyes. He unrolled his window, blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and tossed his bottle under his chair.
"Yes, officer. Sorry. I’ll be on my way."
"No, what’s your problem? I have to tell you to leave every night and I’m getting tired of it. Grow up."
The policeman glared at him for a moment, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and walked back to his car.
He couldn’t help but smile. The constant harassment from the police officer was something he looked forward to every day. He was the only person who paid him any attention now and they had formed an unspoken agreement. Leave when he’s told to, and he won’t get taken in for his constant drunkenness and more importantly, soiled breath.
The car started with it’s familiar hesitance and he drove to his apartment. Empty pizza boxes, stained post-it notes, and the occasional Advil were his welcome home hugs, probably just as comforting to him as a wife’s kiss and the smell of cooking lasagna to your average man.
He never wanted to be this guy. Only cowards sit around moping in their own venom. He was going to be the man who didn’t give up, didn’t miss the moment, and didn’t cry about it. The problem with not giving up is that since your army won’t surrender, they all get killed in the end.
Maybe he was just facing the side effects of life. Everyone had their own way of coping with them; he just preferred the "poison down the throat and in the lungs" method. He wanted to hold on tight but it was hard when it kept clawing at his hands, forcing him to let go eventually.
"Sir, you can’t park here. It’s past twelve. Go home."
The officer’s flashlight stung his now bloodshot eyes. He unrolled his window, blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and tossed his bottle under his chair.
"Yes, officer. Sorry. I’ll be on my way."
"No, what’s your problem? I have to tell you to leave every night and I’m getting tired of it. Grow up."
The policeman glared at him for a moment, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and walked back to his car.
He couldn’t help but smile. The constant harassment from the police officer was something he looked forward to every day. He was the only person who paid him any attention now and they had formed an unspoken agreement. Leave when he’s told to, and he won’t get taken in for his constant drunkenness and more importantly, soiled breath.
The car started with it’s familiar hesitance and he drove to his apartment. Empty pizza boxes, stained post-it notes, and the occasional Advil were his welcome home hugs, probably just as comforting to him as a wife’s kiss and the smell of cooking lasagna to your average man.
He never wanted to be this guy. Only cowards sit around moping in their own venom. He was going to be the man who didn’t give up, didn’t miss the moment, and didn’t cry about it. The problem with not giving up is that since your army won’t surrender, they all get killed in the end.
Maybe he was just facing the side effects of life. Everyone had their own way of coping with them; he just preferred the "poison down the throat and in the lungs" method. He wanted to hold on tight but it was hard when it kept clawing at his hands, forcing him to let go eventually.
