Lost Boy

The raindrops danced along the balcony awning like remorseful beats of a snare drum, reciting a solo symphony for this man without an essence. The Irish grain is my only host this evening, filling my already damaged psyche with ruefully improper guilt. These typically chestnut colored orbs are now stained with a crimson hue and too painful to close, not that my nightmares are any more pleasant.

Clutched in my dominant hand is the nearly empty fifth, scarred digits gripping the neck of the bottle like it belongs to my demons. My breathing becomes staggered. My vision grows blurred, although not enough to mask the image of the photograph in my left hand...a family portrait dated somewhere in the years when smiles were present and sorrow was unaccounted for. Happier days. The last picture of the four of us united.

Pursed lips wrapped around the mouth of the Jameson. The remaining whiskey burnt my throat on its passage down. An unnecessary drink. I am already beyond repair. Closing fiery eyes for mere seconds as familiar lyrics echoed through speakers in my home, I attempt to mutter the words, but the quivering in my lips forbids such a gesture.

Muscles in my shoulder rapidly flex as the bottle is released into the air, crashing against the aged drywall with a clatter. Such desolate thoughts have long tantalized my mind, that I may escape this bleak nightmare. For it is only in this inebriated state of consciousness that I have the power to dictate my own nirvana.

When my muscles finally become paralyzed from exhaustion, I slump to the hardwood with a heavy thud, my host tucking me into a paradoxical slumber, the photograph still glued to my fingers like a child’s teddy bear in the night.

Sleep well, Prince. Tomorrow is coming, whether you are ready for it or not.