Trying to Forget

Gulping back a sob, he shoves the bottle to his lips and drinks in the liquid. Every day he puts up a façade in front of everyone. They all think he is made of stone, but in reality he is broken beyond repair. He is tired, but the liquor makes it bearable.

He takes another swig.

He doesn't want to be in this room anymore. It feels strange. It's as if the more time he spends in the there, the more his stone walls break and the broken, sad man that he hides inside himself is being revealed.

He needs to get out of here.

Abruptly, he stands, Snuffles still in his hands along with his precious bottle, and walks quickly out of the room. He doesn't understand what made him go in there, not after all that time.

Quickly he stumbles out of the room, down the hall, and down the stairs. His breathing is heavy and an overwhelming sense of panic has overtaken him. He needs to get as far away from that room as possible.

He flies down the stairs, his feet barely even touching the floor as he runs, and collapses heavily onto the couch. His breathing is ragged and, shakily, he takes another swig.

God, why did he go in there? It only brought back everything he has been trying - and failing - desperately to forget.

He takes another swig.

And another.

Snuffles is clutched tightly to his chest and William is absentmindedly stroking the fake tuffs of fur. He remembers buying the bear from the hospital gift shop the night Luke was born, bringing it to Layla's hospital room and presenting the bear in a grand fashion. Its presence became the only thing that could comfort Luke. They had wanted to bury him with the bear, but it was too large for the tiny little coffin.

That tiny little coffin still haunts him. The image of it being lowered into the ground is still so clear in his mind. He sees it every time he closes his eyes, every time he looks in the backyard, and...every time he sees Layla. He just can't seem to shake the image.

Maybe another swig will help?

He lifts the bottle to his lips and sucks it in, almost empty. Oh well, at least he has another.

He grips the top of the couch and pulls himself up into a sitting position. His shoes squishing in the puddle of Devil's Cut that he left behind. He shrugs, pulls off his shoes and tosses them behind him.

He dips his hand into the bag and reaches for a bit. Trying and failing at gripping the last remaining bottle he is sure he has. Maybe he only bought three, he can't remember. Oh, well.

He stands up, bottle in hand and staggers over to the liquor cabinet next to the mantel. He fumbles a bit, shoves the bottle underneath his arm, pins it to his side, and finally retches the cabinet open.

He gently places the bottle on the mantel and begins to dig around the cabinet. He knows he has a spare bottle somewhere in there. He roughly pulls out a box of wine glasses and tosses them behind him, not caring as they break. He pulls bottle after bottle out, but none of them are his precious Devil's Cut, so he tosses them aside, not minding as they shatter on the floor, their contents leaking onto the hard wood, forming a giant puddle of mixed alcohol that spreads across the floor coating everything in its reach including his black dress socks. Oh, who cares? He can always buy another pair.

The cabinet is almost empty and he still can't find his poison of choice. His somber drunkenness is slowly starting to form into hysteria. He needs his Devil's Cut. Nothing can sooth him the way that it does. Nothing cares for him the way it does. Nothing can compare.

He thrusts his hands to his hair, gripping the greasy locks, and pulling tightly.

"Fuck!" he yells out in the emptiness. His hands move to his face, his short nails digging into his skin. "Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck..." His body is rocking back and forth with his new mantra. "Where- where is it?" His body is shaking. He reaches in desperately, grips the last bottle, and pulls it to his face. His bleary eyes can barely make out the label.

It's just another bottle of fucking Vermouth. Why the hell do they have so much Vermouth?

His eyes travel to the mirror just to his left. He can see the destruction clearly all around him in its reflection. He can see himself, broken beyond repair. His normally perfectly slicked back hair, is messy and sticking up in every direction. His blue dress shirt is un-tucked and unbuttoned, his white undershirt revealed and stained with droplets of amber liquor. In his pale hand, he can see the green glass neck of the Vermouth bottle clutched tightly in his right hand. His brown eyes look wild... crazed, even.

He looks as if he has been ravaged by a monster. No. He is the monster. He can see it all in the shiny reflective glass. In that stupid mirror... God, he wishes he had gotten rid of the thing years ago. Now it sits there, perfectly in place as everything else goes to hell. The stupid mirror is taunting him. It is towering over him, trying to intimidate him, mocking him. It tells him that he is a disgrace. A filthy creature fit for only madness.

Ha.

He'll show it.

William throws the Vermouth bottle at the glass, not bothering to shield his eyes as the bottle shatters spewing its toxicity all over him, drenching him. He watches gleefully as the shards of green glass mixes with the reflective ones. He doesn't mind that he just gave himself seven years of bad luck. He's had enough bad luck to last a lifetime; a little more won't hurt.

He laughs a deep, boisterous laugh.

He has finally done something right. He has finally rid himself of that stupid mirror and his taunting reflection.