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(© Henry Naughton)

It doesnít really matter. Thatís what I keep telling myself over and over and over. It just doesnít matter. I could take a drink. Drink that whole bottle. One big bottle of Jack, hold the coke, hold the ice. I just stare at it. Sitting here with me on the floor. Just a man and his bottle. Oh, and my Glock with 6 or 7 rounds in it.

Just sitting here on the floor of the bathroom, in the dark, except for a candle. In the same clothes I had on yesterday, and the day before and the day before that. I think I washed 3 days ago, hard to say. The only sound is them. And her.

My wife, so beautiful in life, so terrifying in undeath. And she has friends with her and I am here in the bathroom in the dark. Alone. An alcoholic with a full bottle of whiskey and a gun, only a thin door and silence keeping the dead out.

She got bit when we tried to get to a rescue station. We hadnít made it far. So, we hustled back here to home. I still some power in my phone, so I looked up bite care. I googled that shit. LOL, wash with alcohol. No alcohol here, so I left her to get supplies. I left her alone. She died alone.

I came back like a hero. Bottle held over my head, the undead literally nipping at my heels, 5 or 6 or 7 rounds of 9mm left. But, I was ready to cure her. Except she was already dead. As my fan club shattered and piled through the bay window she reached for me, but not in the same way she had in life. I freaked, and hid.

I couldnít shoot her. Does that make me a coward? Should I shoot myself? Should I open the bathroom door then shoot myself? Should I shoot 4 or 5 or 6 of them then myself? Should I get drunk? Does any of this matter? Should I go down fighting?

All those meetings, 4 long yearsí worth, one day at a time. ďIíll die an alcoholic, but I donít have to die a drunk.Ē No one saw this scenario coming. Does it matter now? Just one twist then drink, forget how I failed her, then blow my brains out; my stupid, sober, unsuccessful brains. God grant me the serenity.

But, see, hereís the problem. I donít like being anonymous. Thatís where you the reader comes in. Thatís why Iím writing this on the margins of an old Sports Illustrated with an eyeliner pencil. You have found this. If you have any humanity left, you are asking yourself what happened. The candle is almost done, and I am very hungry. When the candle goes out, so will I, one way or the other. Please donít judge me, friend. I did the best I could. One day at a time.

My name is Mitch, I am an alcoholic.


Other contributions by this author:-
1. A March To The Sea (29-Jan-2013)
A short story about hope in a dying city.

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Genre:Living Dead
Type:Short story
Rating:6.26 / 10
Rated By:50 users
Comments: 5 users
Total Hits:11183

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