Fractured

8

Six years previous, a father left behind...

They did not look back. Graham watched them go; they left without the slightest glance back. This was his greatest mistake yet, it would take a lot of beer to drown this one down he thought. He looked at the back licence plate of his wife's car as it sped away from his now lonely house near the roundabout. He fumbled with the key as he tried to enter the house; he was not used to having the door locked. He locked the door behind him, again having trouble with the lock. Graham sat on the master bed, his bed, only he would sleep here now. His head was in his hands, there were droplets falling from the corners of his eyes, life was hopeless and it would end in a bottle.

But, as Graham sat, his mind was taking stock of the situation. He was alone, the one thing the child in everyone wants. But it was not what Graham wanted, he needed companionship, he saw that he would never have that now; he had lost his only chance. There was no second chance for the people that hurt children, he had always believed that. There was no reset button, there was no Ctrl + Z. He was lost now: a dot in space, seemingly insignificant. There was to be no memorable occasions for the res of his life, there would be no magical moments with his son, no more loving embraces from his wife and all because of the drink.

The 'resident to be' thought of this moment as the only true moment to date in his life, other that the wars he'd been in of course. It was seeing his friends and comrades die beside him that had driven him to the drink, there were things in war, things that detrimentally affected the rest of a person's life and the lives of those around them. His ghosts fed on the drink and the pain in side his heart, they looked on in this moment, and they could see the pain in Graham's face and the hurt in his eyes. To Graham, his ghosts had always spoken with the voices of fallen friends and comrades, but no longer. His ghosts trailed his thoughts with the voices and faces of his son and soon to be 'ex' wife.

The previous ghosts were gone, but Graham was not to know that, they had fulfilled the purpose that ghosts of war often do. They had pushed Graham to the precipice but, they had not made him jump. The thoughts that haunt us never make us jump, they give us the opportunity to jump but the choice is always ours and ours alone. Graham looked over the edge, he was where his ghosts had placed him, right before the drop, but, unlike many before him, he fought against the feelings of hopelessness. He stepped back from the edge, turned his back and walked away.

Graham did what many alcoholics cannot do on their own, he took a garbage bag from the drawer they were stored in and walked through his house, picking beer cans and bottles up as he went. When he came to the kitchen, he threw open the door to the fridge he'd owned his whole life, and raked all the still full bottles into the bag, he grasped the half drunken bottles of wine and dropped them into the bag. Once his house was empty of the demon drink, he walked outside onto the back patio. He popped opened every bottle, stood them all in a line and breathed in the sweetly sickening smells of alcohol.

The temptation was strong, but he knew now that drinking another of these beverages would result in him taking the jump off the cliff. He would fall, and he would lose all hope. Giving up was not in the cards, that's what Graham saw losing hope as, giving up. He would not lose hope, he would find a way to live, he would find a way to survive and he would find it without the drinks that had consumed his very soul. Graham rose from his haunches and turned back to his house, he did not glance back at the open bottles of liquor and he knew he would never see them again. Deep. In his heart. He knew it.