Drinking is supposed to make things better—fade out the memories, dull the pain that’s always there, dull the thinking that doesn’t ever stop. But, the alcohol only sharpens what’s already there.
Three drinks and it’s almost okay.
Seven and he can see her clear as day, clear as if he were there again, holding her hand again, watching her die again.
Maysilee was a pretty girl (but he can hardly remember how pretty she looked now). He didn’t love her, but he didn’t want her to die. He didn’t love her, but he used to think she was so pretty when he saw in her school, used to dream about touching her hair and kissing her pretty mouth.
Now he only dreams of her in those last few moments. Blood on her face. Blood in her hair. Blood bubbled and frothing out her open mouth.
He dreams her dying every night and no amount of drinking will make him forget.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Three drinks and it’s almost okay.
Seven and he can see her clear as day, clear as if he were there again, holding her hand again, watching her die again.
Maysilee was a pretty girl (but he can hardly remember how pretty she looked now).
He didn’t love her, but he didn’t want her to die. He didn’t love her, but he used to think she was so pretty when he saw in her school, used to dream about touching her hair and kissing her pretty mouth.
Now he only dreams of her in those last few moments. Blood on her face. Blood in her hair. Blood bubbled and frothing out her open mouth.
He dreams her dying every night and no amount of drinking will make him forget.
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