Trying to Forget

Baby.

He misses his baby, his little boy. The sweet, innocent, bundle of joy that he and Layla created together, but he isn't here. Not anymore. Not since the day it happened. The day he died.

It was all Layla's fault.

She should have been watching him. She should have been paying more attention, but no. Her phone call was much more important than their son's safety. He was so little, so pure and untouched by the world's misery. His little life ended before it even had a chance to begin.

William lifts the bottle to his lips for another swig, but it's empty. Growling, he throws the bottle toward the wall opposite of him and watches the glass shatter. He drunkenly reaches into the bag and pulls out another large bottle, whisks the cap off, and begins sucking down the poison like it's the only thing he has to live for.

It might as well be.

Layla hates him... no... she's afraid of him.

She has become so shy and timid around him. She visible shakes whenever he is near. It's not like he has ever hurt her... at least, he doesn't think he has. He can't remember ever hurting her before, but then again, these days he can't remember much.

She's probably better off broken in that hospital bed than with him in their cold, lonely house.

He takes another swig.

It's his fault. If it weren't for him, she would have never been in that car, but, no, he wanted his precious liquor. He is a disgusting disgrace of a man.

He takes one look at the mostly filled bottle and throws it to the floor, not caring as the liquid sinks into his $200 pair of Italian leather loafers. He stands up, walks to the mantel, and leans heavily on it. He looks up and his brown eyes meet his own in the mirror. His eyes are shining with tears and his cheeks are damp. He brings a shaking hand to his cheek to wipe the emasculating tears from existence, but is met with only cold dry skin. He blinks and shakes his head. Ha, he is seeing things, it must be the alcohol.

He shrugs and turns away from the mirror, reaches into the bag and pulls out another bottle of his sweet poison. Greedily, he takes another swig and looks back at the mirror.

Its frame is shining harshly in the fluorescent lights; it hurts to look at it, but he can't tear his eyes away from the glass. All he sees is a weak, pathetic excuse for a human being.

Is that really him?

He lifts his hand to the glass, his rough fingers tracing the outline of his face. His eyes are bloodshot with purple bruises resting heavily underneath the bottom lids. He looks as if he hasn't slept in days, years even. He is disgusting.

He turns from the mirror and lifts the bottle to his lips again once more. He guzzles the searing liquid and staggers away from the mantle. He doesn't want to see what he has become. He doesn't want to be confronted with what he has done to himself, his life, his family. Instead, he wants to ignore it.

He bumps into the couch and groans at the obtrusive object, but moves around it and sluggishly makes his way to the stairs.

Gripping the banister with one hand, his other clutching tightly to his precious poison, he slowly pulls himself up them. Each step is rewarded with another swig until finally he reaches the top. Instead of turning right and heading to the prison cell of a room he shares with Layla, he goes left and approaches a door that neither he nor Layla has touched in years.

He takes another swig, gulping it down in haste, allowing a small drop to dribble down from his lips, over his chin and down his throat. He doesn't bother whipping the trail away. He just stares at the door with the faded 'L' in the center. He takes a deep breath and shakily pushes the door open.

The room is decently sized and against the far wall is a tiny racecar bed with matching racecar sheets. A large teddy bear rests against the pillow and above the bed on the light blue painted wall is the name, Luke, painted in a contrasting navy. The room looks as it did all those years ago, even the floor is still littered with toys that had been forgotten just like this room.

He takes another swig.

And another.

And another.

He staggers into the room not minding the toys strewn across the floor. Not even the staff has been in this room since the death. He reaches the bed, takes another swig, and grabs the large teddy bear. Snuffles, that is what Luke had called the teddy bear.

He grips the bear and the liquor tightly to his chest, and collapses onto the small racecar bed. His large, stocky form takes up the entire space, but he doesn't mind as the plastic digs into his back. His head is against the pillow as he stares at the ceiling that is cluttered with those stupid light-up stars that Layla had insisted on putting up before Luke was born. She was so forceful. She had been determined that it was in Luke's best interest that he have a constant view of the night sky, or, well, a manmade version of it, at least. She said it would act as a nightlight, of sorts. She had just been so cute... and pregnant, so there was no way he could have disagreed. It had taken him forever to put those god damn things up; his neck still hurts thinking about it.

He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a swig.

He misses those days. He misses actually being able to look at his beautiful wife without a wave of nausea coming over him. He misses being able to be with his son. If only she had paid attention...

He can still remember the day like it was yesterday. It was summer and he had been at work. Layla was home with Luke and the two had been out in the backyard. Apparently the phone had rung and Layla thought that their three year old would be okay by himself for just a few moments. What she didn't realize was that the gate to the pool hadn't been fully closed. She was gone for maybe five minutes when she heard Luke screaming. She ran out of the house and was met with the sight of their son flailing in the water. She didn't think twice as she jumped in, fully clothed, but it was too late. She wasn't quick enough. When he had received the call from his sobbing wife to meet her at the hospital, his heart had broken into a million tiny little pieces. He arrived at the hospital and she had told him everything. He couldn't stand looking at her. He couldn't stand looking at the corpse of their son, so he left and went to the nearest bar. Since that moment, Devil's Cut has been his only solace.

He has tried forgiving her. But every time he looks at her, he can only see the monumental mistake she had made that cost them their son.