It was ever-present even among all of the separate hells constantly holding court in his soul it was one that reared-up more often that the fear of violence, or pain, or unrelenting guilt.
All of those he dealt with and dealt with and dealt with and still managed to sleep.
Not well sometimes and not sober sometimes, but he still managed to sleep.
This was, in it's own foul, insidious way, worse than the fear of what might well await him walking down the street, or coming through the front door late at night.
Some things you can anesthetize yourself against.
Some things you can tough-out.
Somethings you can rightfully and righteously give only cursory acknowledgement to and go about your life without it destroying you.
But some things...?
Some things just haunt. Just lay in waiting. You can push them back down into your gut but they just keep pushing back. Like an infected wound you scratch at in your sleep. You just keep on winding-up bloodied.
He sat, as he often did, facing the window watching the fog outside and listening to the rain against the plate glass window.
The lights cast giant rivulet shadows over him and down the wall.
The lone light in the room-a blue cast coming from the stereo and fresh ice cubes hissed and popped in the tumbler full of rum on the table by his side.
The parkerized finish on the .45 just made a pistol-shaped black hole shadow next to his drink.
Listening to every creak and footstep in the hall outside his door.
The phone wasn't going to ring and he knew it.
It never did anymore.
In a way, it was pure mercy. Not knowing this was better than knowing for sure. Even though he knew.
It had always just been a matter of time.
What would have, in most cases, been the worst way to do it, was just sweet mercy.
She had just faded him out.
Not made a scene. Not insisting he could be saved-that he could walk away. Not judging, or being angry.
She didn't feel bad for being scared-off. To her way of thinking is was just the way it was.
Seriously, who wouldn't be scared?
A life spent trying to take the high road had built a mountain.
That's just the way it was.
And would be.
He hadn't tried. No use in insulting them both.
But as he started to ache from the neck down, as his guts spun into knots he just sat there and drank.
And wondered when it would end and how.
The phone wasn't going to ring.
All of those he dealt with and dealt with and dealt with and still managed to sleep.
Not well sometimes and not sober sometimes, but he still managed to sleep.
This was, in it's own foul, insidious way, worse than the fear of what might well await him walking down the street, or coming through the front door late at night.
Some things you can anesthetize yourself against.
Some things you can tough-out.
Somethings you can rightfully and righteously give only cursory acknowledgement to and go about your life without it destroying you.
But some things...?
Some things just haunt. Just lay in waiting. You can push them back down into your gut but they just keep pushing back. Like an infected wound you scratch at in your sleep. You just keep on winding-up bloodied.
He sat, as he often did, facing the window watching the fog outside and listening to the rain against the plate glass window.
The lights cast giant rivulet shadows over him and down the wall.
The lone light in the room-a blue cast coming from the stereo and fresh ice cubes hissed and popped in the tumbler full of rum on the table by his side.
The parkerized finish on the .45 just made a pistol-shaped black hole shadow next to his drink.
Listening to every creak and footstep in the hall outside his door.
The phone wasn't going to ring and he knew it.
It never did anymore.
In a way, it was pure mercy. Not knowing this was better than knowing for sure. Even though he knew.
It had always just been a matter of time.
What would have, in most cases, been the worst way to do it, was just sweet mercy.
She had just faded him out.
Not made a scene. Not insisting he could be saved-that he could walk away. Not judging, or being angry.
She didn't feel bad for being scared-off. To her way of thinking is was just the way it was.
Seriously, who wouldn't be scared?
A life spent trying to take the high road had built a mountain.
That's just the way it was.
And would be.
He hadn't tried. No use in insulting them both.
But as he started to ache from the neck down, as his guts spun into knots he just sat there and drank.
And wondered when it would end and how.
The phone wasn't going to ring.
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