Status: Completed
Trying to Forget
The mirror
William Blackwood stomps up his winding driveway. His breathing is heavy and clutched tightly in his arms is a large brown paper bag, its contents clanking together with his movements. He slams open his heavy, wooden front door and storms into his large house, leaving it wide open.
He stops himself just as he is about to call out to his ungrateful wife, remembering that she isn't there. No one is there. He is alone. Forcefully he slams the door close, the vibration being enough to shake the contents of the walls, including the large tarnished silver mirror he and Layla had received as a wedding gift from his great-grandmother, Blanche.
Layla hates that mirror. She always asks for him to take it down, but every time he tries, something stops him. So there it rests much to Layla's displeasure, just above the mantel place, where it had been hung by the fragile hands of Blanche herself.
William tosses the brown paper bag onto the nearby coffee table, shrugs off his heavy coat and stands in front of the mirror. His reflection, like always, is mocking him. He reaches behind him for the bag and pulls out a bottle of his precious elixir, Devil's Cut. With a swift motion the lid is unscrewed and he is staring at the amber liquid that swishes in the bottle. He puts the opening of the bottle to his lips, shoots a glare at his reflection, and tips the bottle back, relishing in the burn that follows.
He loves the burning trail the whiskey makes as it flows down his throat and the warmth that spreads to his limbs. The sensation is the only thing that brings him out of his numb existence. With another swig, he journeys over to the couch and slumps into it. The couch, like always, is cold and hard. He doesn't care though; he just brings the bottle to his lips and takes another swig.
And another.
And another.
And another.
Each swig he takes is in hopes to rid his memory of that stark white room and Layla's crumpled body lying motionless in the hospital bed. The doctors say she may never wake up, but who cares... she deserves it.
He shakes his head and takes another swig. He doesn't want to dwell on her. That bitch doesn't deserve his sympathy. He heaves a heavy sigh and looks at the bottle, noticing that most of it is gone.
"Wonder how that happened," he slurs, but shrugs and brings the bottle back to his lips, suckling the sweet nectar like a baby would its mother.
He stops himself just as he is about to call out to his ungrateful wife, remembering that she isn't there. No one is there. He is alone. Forcefully he slams the door close, the vibration being enough to shake the contents of the walls, including the large tarnished silver mirror he and Layla had received as a wedding gift from his great-grandmother, Blanche.
Layla hates that mirror. She always asks for him to take it down, but every time he tries, something stops him. So there it rests much to Layla's displeasure, just above the mantel place, where it had been hung by the fragile hands of Blanche herself.
William tosses the brown paper bag onto the nearby coffee table, shrugs off his heavy coat and stands in front of the mirror. His reflection, like always, is mocking him. He reaches behind him for the bag and pulls out a bottle of his precious elixir, Devil's Cut. With a swift motion the lid is unscrewed and he is staring at the amber liquid that swishes in the bottle. He puts the opening of the bottle to his lips, shoots a glare at his reflection, and tips the bottle back, relishing in the burn that follows.
He loves the burning trail the whiskey makes as it flows down his throat and the warmth that spreads to his limbs. The sensation is the only thing that brings him out of his numb existence. With another swig, he journeys over to the couch and slumps into it. The couch, like always, is cold and hard. He doesn't care though; he just brings the bottle to his lips and takes another swig.
And another.
And another.
And another.
Each swig he takes is in hopes to rid his memory of that stark white room and Layla's crumpled body lying motionless in the hospital bed. The doctors say she may never wake up, but who cares... she deserves it.
He shakes his head and takes another swig. He doesn't want to dwell on her. That bitch doesn't deserve his sympathy. He heaves a heavy sigh and looks at the bottle, noticing that most of it is gone.
"Wonder how that happened," he slurs, but shrugs and brings the bottle back to his lips, suckling the sweet nectar like a baby would its mother.