I Am Going, I Am Going ...

Ciaran staggered down the street, rain pouring down around him as he gripped onto the wall that ran alongside him on his right. He was soaked through, cold, depressed, and very, very drunk.

He stumbled over and fell onto his knees, in the middle of a huge puddle. He cursed loudly and obscenely, smacking his fist on the floor in his frustration. His head was spinning; all he wanted to do was sleep …

Perhaps he could just lie down here? No one would really care, not until the morning, anyway. But it was freezing … Ciaran didn't fancy the idea of waking up cold and stiff, with people all looking down on him disdainfully. His girlfriend had called him a drunk when she had broken up with him that night. His mother had called him the same thing when she had thrown him out of the house two years ago. All of the people inbetween had implied the same thing, if not said it themselves.

"You should really stop drinking, Ciaran."

"Jeez, Ciaran, do you not think that you've had enough?"

"You're going to regret that when you're older, Ciaran."

It wasn't up to them! He could do what he liked …

Ciaran pulled himself up and staggered on, though he didn't get far before he suddenly doubled over and was violently sick. He was sick for what felt like forever, but by the time he had come back to his senses, somehow back on his knees again, he felt more sober than before. He didn’t like it. The haze of drink was still around him, though it had receded enough for him to be able to feel the beginnings of a throbbing headache, the start of achy limbs, the twinges of regret from the argument he had just had with his girlfriend, the things he had said which he shouldn't have said …

"I can't do this anymore, Ciaran! You give up the drink, or you give up me!"

"I don't have any problem! It's you with the problem, you never enjoy yourself!"

"I know not to take it too far! You're such a drunk! Can you not see that? You carry on and you'll be out on your ear before the month's up!"

"Shut up! You don’t know anything at all! I'm fine, there's nothing wrong!"

"You still haven't answered the question, Ciaran! Me, or drink? What's it going to be?"

"You can't come in and try to change me like this, you old cow!"

"FINE THEN!"

She had stood up and stormed out of the pub. Ciaran had stayed there drinking for several more hours, four, five; it didn't mean anything to him anymore. At the time, he had been glad to see her go. Now, though, he realised that he loved her, and he wanted her back. He just didn't think that he had a problem.

"You all right, lad?"

The voice was gruff, slightly slurred, and Ciaran could tell that it was an elderly man speaking before he weakly turned around. Still kneeling on the floor, he dragged his unfocused eyes to the man's face.

The man was clearly a bum. He wore a scruffy overcoat, the pockets bulging with who knew what. his clothes were ragged and scruffy, his face was unshaven, the wrinkles in his face were deeply engraved. His eyes were a pale and watery blue, several teeth were missing, he was balding, and the most striking thing was the he stank so strongly of spirits that it nearly made Ciaran throw up again.

"What do you want?" Ciaran muttered. The old man crouched down to meet Ciaran's eye, and then he gave a thin smile.

"You're going to die, you know that?" he asked softly, his eyes full of sympathy, yet despair at the same time. Ciaran looked at him in disbelief for a brief second, and then he, too, gave a thin smile.

"Thanks for that. I'll keep that in mind."

"You don't understand, boy! You're going the same way I am!"

"You're still alive."

"No I'm not. I died long ago. I may be walking and talking and all of that, but I'm not here, kid. I've not been here since … well, I've forgotten. It's been that long ago." The man tapped the side of his head and sighed sadly. "You need to break the habit while you're still young."

"What habit?"

"Your drinking habit. Look at you. You're clearly an alcoholic."

"You shut your face, you don't know anything!"

"I know a lot more than you think I do! Look at me. I'm sixty-seven. I've had a lot more experience than you … you young folk really do think that you know it all, don't you? Well, sonny boy, you're talking to someone who's seen it all. I was your age once. Liked having a drink, liked going out. Then I started fancying a drink in the day. Then I started to think that I couldn't have fun without drinking. I started drinking every single day, from morning until noon. Now look at me! I'm homeless! All of my money went to drink and I lost my house. I sit on the street corner with a bottle of whiskey in a brown bag and I beg and beg until I get enough to buy another bottle of whiskey, and then the cycle starts all over again. And look at you. You're going the exact same way as I did. You're drinking all the time now, I bet. Missing work because you're hungover or drunk. All of your money going to alcohol. Soon you'll be on the street like me."

"Shut up, you're wrong."

"I know I'm right. You know what else? I'm dying. I'm dying, kiddo. My liver's packed in. There's nothing I can do. I've sinned and abused my whole life, and so, before I die, I want to be able to at least help one person. Please. I've been there. You need to get help before it's too late."

The man turned, and he ambled away, singing a sad song to himself. It was about having no one to visit your graveside. Ciaran felt more depressed than ever.

He threw up again before he was able to stagger to his feet, and he made his way slowly back to his flat, only to find a notice pinned to his door. A fourteen-day notice. Fourteen days before he was evicted.

He stumbled into the flat and poured himself a large glass of whiskey, downing it in one. And then another. And then another.

He had never known when to stop. The landlord found him the next morning, sprawled out on the floor, unconscious. Thankfully he had fallen onto his side, as he had been throwing up all night. The landlord called an ambulance, and when the paramedics had taken Ciaran away, proceeded to pack all of Ciaran's things away into boxes. He wouldn't be living here again. The landlord had had enough of him.

Ciaran came round in the hospital, feeling as though his stomach had been ripped out. He had been here many times before. He must have had his stomach pumped. Later on that day, the doctor came in to see him.

"When can I get out of here?" was the first thing Ciaran demanded.

"Not for a while. You nearly died."

"How long's not for a while?"

"Until you kick you drinking problem."

"I don’t have a problem!"

"You'll be here for a long, long while at this rate."

"Why? I've no problem!"

"Because it always takes the most time to admit that you have a problem, that's why. You have a serious problem, Ciaran. You'll soon realise that."

Ciaran was left to his thoughts. He was getting flashbacks of the night before. He remembered yelling at Orlaith, he remembered them splitting up, he remembered the old man on his way home, he remembered his warning.

He remembered the past few years. He remembered as, one by one, the friends had drifted away from him, not liking what he was becoming. He remembered stealing off his own mother to pay for drink. He remembered scrounging off his friends when he had had them, all for drink money. He remembered all of the jobs he had lost because he had stolen from the workplace, again for booze money. He remembered the three flats he had lost because he couldn’t pay. He remembered the time he had had to stay at the homeless shelter because no one would take him, not even Orlaith. He remembered the policeman having to risk his own life to pull Ciaran from the railway line when he had passed out and fallen in front of a speeding train. He remembered all of the weddings and funerals and christenings in his family that he had missed because he had been passed out in a hedge somewhere. His two nieces. His three nephews. His sister's wedding. His father's funeral. He had missed them all.

He remembered staggering down the streets in Belfast, the disapproving glares, all of the fights he had got into. The amount of times his nose had had to be reset at this very hospital, the time yet another policeman had had to risk his life to prevent Ciaran from being stabbed by another drunk that he had rubbed up the wrong way. The car he had caused to swerve off of the road to avoid him. It had had two children inside of it. Luckily they had all survived, but the father had been put out of work for a year – he had broken his back. The family had nearly lost their house, the children had to live with their grandparents while the mother struggled to bring money in.

This drinking problem – for Ciaran now realised that he had a problem – hadn’t just affected him. It had affected everyone that he had ever known, and those whom he hadn't.

Tears were pouring down his cheeks now, and the doctor from earlier had been watching him for quite some time. Ciaran looked up to meet his eye, and the doctor watched him knowingly.

"You realise, don't you?"

"I don’t want to do this anymore."

"That's entirely up to you."

"You'll help me?"

"Only if you want help. We can't help you if you don't want it."

"I need help."

"You do."

Ciaran stayed at the hospital for a while. During his time there, he bumped into a familiar face. The old man from the night he had split up from Orlaith was there, in a bed just down the corridor. Glancing around, Ciaran ducked into the room and softly approached the unconscious man, taking his cold and aged hand in his own and watching him.

"It's me." he whispered. "The guy who didn’t have a problem."

The old mans eyelids flickered, and opened.

"You're sober." he smiled.

"You got through." Ciaran replied quietly. "Why are you here?"

"I won't be leaving." the old man smiled. "But you've got your life back. That's all I asked for."

*

The old man died two days later. Ciaran was the only one who attended his funeral. The old man, Brian O'Malley, had had no one left after the life he had devoted to alcohol. Ciaran stood at the man's graveside, and he was still there when the priest approached him and pressed something into his hand.

The old's man's journal, battered and stained.

"He wanted you to have this."

Ciaran opened it to the last entry.

Today, it read, dated the day he had met Ciaran. I like to think I may have made a difference.