Eat My Heart Out

I know I’m an alcoholic. First step towards recovery is to admit it. I admit it.

That’s all I will do.

I toss back the last bit of beer before I slam the bottle down into the table and continue drawing. I love how beer makes me numb. Alcohol makes me dizzy and forget about it all, but beer just makes me numb. I can’t feel my fingers as they’re wrapped around the pencil that I keep dropping. I can’t feel my back, even though it always aches when I sit like this for hours on end. I can’t feel anything, even though I keep thinking about how tiny Frank is.

I draw Frank in the mess of bodies. I spent a great amount of effort getting his face just right. The way his nose curves. The way his hair falls. The way his eyes glare.

I drew grandma the best I could. She’s not in the flames, but up on a cliff. She looks regal and dominate – just like I remember her. I drew her hair perfectly, but her face is not quite right. I have no idea how to make it better, though.

I draw Frank’s cheekbones perfectly. They practically stick out of the paper.

The bunny I had until I was 6 is by my grandmother’s feet. The druggy from downtown is in the sea of flames. Other than that, the sea is filled with unfamiliar faces and bodies. Some faces are contorted in pain, some in fear, some in happiness and some of the faces are burned beyond recognition.

I’m not down here.

I’m not dead yet.