The smell of whisky hung close to his nostrils as he layslumped on a sheet less mattress on the floor in the dark. He winced at thesmell as he brought the bottle to his lips and then forced his eyes shut andchugged as much as he could bear in one single gulp. “It’s the only medicinethat will silence them,” he told himself. He was sick of the voices.
The indescribable pain he felt in the depths of his soulrelaxed its grip and he took each breath thereafter as if it was his first in avery long time. He could feel the oxygen engulf his lungs and penetrate theblood running through his veins. How delicious it felt to feel alive again, tofeel without the persistent lingering of a deep wound. A pain no one couldunderstand, a pain no prescription could eradicate, a pain destined to haunthim until the end of his days.
The bottle was almost empty now and he started to panic.He knew the voices would be back soon. His tired eyes darted around in the darkas he looked for the kitchen. Gathering whatever strength he had left, he very slowlycrawled his way across the empty studio apartment to where the mini fridge wasperched atop the kitchen counter. His head was swirling in every whichdirection and he could feel the whisky plotting its escape in his stomach.
He lay still for a minute and then ten in completesilence and darkness, calming the dizzying effects of the alcohol. Salivadripped from the corners of his mouth onto the scratched wood panelled floor.His eye lids felt too heavy to keep open but he knew they would come for him,even in his sleep. He wasn’t safe in his dreams nor had he had faith he wouldbe in death, despite constant thoughts of giving up. Alcohol was the onlyconsolation in this lifetime, allowing him to silence the voices for periods ata time. He momentarily allowed his eyes a rest and then forced it wide openbefore sleep ravaged his tired body.
Without having to stand, he managed to pull his chest awayfrom the clutches of gravity and reached high up to open the refrigerator door.The light from within shone a glow upon his worried, anxious face. His youthfulexuberance, once complimented by a handsome face had now morphed into a man wholooked too crumbled and old to be only 32 years old. The growing deep lines onhis forehead were evidence of the commitment of the voices. The visible ribswere evidence that they had already taken too much. The scratches on his wristswere evidence that he was teetering on the edge now.
He reached for a can of beer and slumped back downagainst the counter. His shirt rode up his back in the process, sending achilly jolt as his weathered skin kissed the cold metal cabinets. Thesurprising touch of cold put a smirk on his face. “I can feel!” he silentlyshouted back at the voices in his head. He popped the can open with the ease ofa man who did it for a living, careful not to waste a single drop as he quicklybrought the aluminium canister to his thirsty lips. He guzzled the entire canand heard the voices scurry back into the furthest corners of his mind.
He had won this battle but he would never win the war.
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