((Contains material pertaining to addiction, withdrawal, and adult situations.))
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It was a typical night on the outskirts of Boston, at least for one individual. Half a bottle of booze had already been drained, and still no inspiration came. It had been four years since his first and only novel had become a best seller; four years since he'd struggled for a repeat performance. During that time, hundreds of ideas had passed through his brain, never quite making it onto paper. He wasn't hurting for money, not yet.
Royalties were still coming in from his first book, which was still selling well enough to pay the bills and put food on the table, but he was by no means well off, as could be seen from the lack of luxury which surrounded him. His apartment was nothing fancy, just a flat he rented outside of town; his only means of transportation the Harley that was his pride and joy. "The Book", as it had come to be called, was a constant reminder of what he could do if he put his mind to it. He'd been called a genius, touted as being the next Hemingway, a multitude of praise he could never quite swallow. Hemingway. There was only one. There would never be another, no matter how badly he wanted to be as great.
He'd sat at the keyboard for hours on end, hammering away at one idea or another, until he thought his brain would explode. Day after day, night after night, it was always the same, until he grew so frustrated, he thought maybe he should fall back on his thus-far useless English degree and join the masses of zombified-office workers who made their exodus to and from the city in droves every day from nine to five, or thereabouts. It wasn't the life he'd expected or wanted for himself, and whatever praise he was still getting for his one Great American Novel had long since worn thin. Lightning doesn't always strike twice, he'd been told by several publishers, a handful of manuscripts rejected and trashed. Try again. And again. And again.
Michael reached for the bottle to refill his glass for the umpteen thousandth time, it seemed, seeking inspiration at the bottom of a bottle or a glass, annoyed to find there was nothing left. When had he drained it' He couldn't remember. No matter. He checked his watch for the time. It was nearly nine o'clock. If he hurried, he'd have just enough time to make it to the local liquor store before it closed and grab another bottle of liquid gold inspiration. He shoved his fingers through his hair and grabbed his jacket, keys, and wallet, deciding to walk the two blocks to the little liquor store where the owner knew him by name. It was a hell of a lot better than having to go to a bar, where people would want to socialize. Once they found out who he was, there would be the usual barrage of questions. Michael Donnelly' The guy who wrote that best-seller a few years back" Man, I saw the movie. It was awesome. When are you gonna write another" Blah, blah, blah. It was always the same.
Just his luck, he thought as he stepped out onto the street and felt the first raindrops pelt him from above. Like liquid ice, he thought. It's going to turn to snow soon. He pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, inadequate warmth against the cold, wet rain, but he wouldn't be long. He hurried along the dark streets, his head ducked low against the raindrops that were pelting him like tiny shards of ice slicing at his head and neck. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep warm, quickening his pace, his thoughts riveted on one thing and one thing only - that bottle of amber courage. He bumped into someone, taking little notice of the jostling or the angry words shouted his way, mumbling an apology he didn't feel or mean, so he could continue on his way. When at last he finally reached his destination, it was only to find he was too late. The store had already closed, the object of his desire locked up inside, tighter than Fort Knox.
He thought about breaking in, but that would just be stupid, when he could easily find a bar that would be more than happy to fulfill his needs. He sagged in the doorway and pressed his forehead against the cold, wet glass, looking at the reflection of his own face that looked back at him. You son of a bitch. Look at what you've become. You could have made something of your life, but instead, you're nothing but a loser.
"No, I'm not," he said aloud to no one, but his own reflection. "I'm just in transition," he muttered, something he'd heard some writer friend of his once tell him when they were between novels, but that friend had found his muse and gone on to write several more, leaving Michael in the dust, alone with his misery. A writer's life is a lonely life, he'd told himself more than once, making any excuse he could for being alone. He had to focus on his craft; he couldn't afford to invest in a long-term relationship. It would only distract him, but without any love in his life, without any meaning, he'd lost all his inspiration.
He heard a distant roll of thunder as if from far off, moving closer, and he turned toward the sound of it, lifting his gaze to the sky, rain running down his face to mingle with tears he didn't even realize he was crying. He slid down the front of the door to rest on the stoop, drawing the jacket around him, his only source of warmth, soaked to the skin in the freezing rain and not even caring. How had he come to this, he thought to himself. Freezing to death and dying of exposure. It was either that or withdrawal and one was just as unpleasant a prospect as the other.
As it turned out, he wasn't going to have a chance to experience either, as a man stepped into his view, looming as large as a mountain, it seemed from his point of view. "Gimme your wallet," the man demanded, in a tone of voice that left no room for argument.
"F*ck you," Michael replied, his wallet containing the last of his cash and it was already earmarked for a fresh bottle of bourbon. "Don't make me kick your *ss," he continued, with feigned bravado or foolish arrogance. Why didn't they just leave him in peace, for God's sake"
He was no midget, tall and strapping and of Irish-Italian descent. There was a time when such a threat held substance, but that when he was sober. This was not that time, and the larger man picked him up off the ground like he weighed no more than a child and shoved him against the glass.
"I said your wallet. Give it to me or else," he threatened again, eyes flashing like firecrackers in the night. Or was it the lightning" In Michael's alcohol-induced brain, it was hard to tell.
"Go f*ck yourself," he muttered again, rewarded for his reply with a fist that felt like he'd just collided with a wall, which in all actuality, he had. Sliding down the brick wall of the liquor store, he collapsed on the ground, feeling something warm trickling down his forehead. It couldn't be rain. The rain was cold, and this felt warm. Through the numbness of his brain, he felt someone rifling through his jacket, taking the last of his cash, and tossing the wallet back at him to land in a puddle near his head that was turning a strange shade of red. "Son of a bitch," he muttered to himself, his tongue thick, like he had a fever.
He tried to blink, to lift himself off the street, but his vision swam as if he was on a ship at sea, riding out a storm. He knew he was slipping into oblivion, sweet, peaceful oblivion. Maybe if he was lucky, he wouldn't wake up. Maybe if he was lucky, he could go back in time, fix his mistakes, and none of this would have ever happened. A woman's face wavered in front of his field of vision, but it was only a hallucination. She wasn't real. She was too beautiful to be real. All golden-haired like an angel. He'd seen her before. He'd even dated her once. But that seemed like a million years ago. A lifetime ago. "Elena," he muttered, just as his world started turning black. "Elena, I miss you."
It seemed all of his life was playing itself out right before his eyes, like watching his own life on a movie screen. His head throbbed with a pain that was no longer just that of a simple need for a drink, and he realized as he watched his life play out before his mind's eye that he'd failed, this his life had come to nothing, and that it all went back to that one precious moment in time when he'd lost the only thing that had made life worth living. "If I could only see you one more time....Things would be different. I swear..." He wasn't sure if he'd spoken the words or merely thought them. Everything went black, and he lost all conscious thought of what happened after that.
The gentle creep of some sweet energy wrapped about Michael where he lay, gathering the dejected, frustrated, unconscious man into unseen arms, sweeping him from one plane to the next in a single moment. Rain turned to snow, and the water that soaked him through was dried as if by magic. Instead of the cold hard ground, he was laid between warm soft sheets, so gently not even the original occupier of those sheets noticed his arrival. Night trickled slowly onward into day, the sounds of the house he had been left in announcing the rising and leaving of three people in succession. But the lithe limbed form he had been laid beside ....now she didn't stir until the hour had begun to tick onward to midday and the inevitability of awakening.
It was a typical night on the outskirts of Boston, at least for one individual. Half a bottle of booze had already been drained, and still no inspiration came. It had been four years since his first and only novel had become a best seller; four years since he'd struggled for a repeat performance. During that time, hundreds of ideas had passed through his brain, never quite making it onto paper. He wasn't hurting for money, not yet.
Royalties were still coming in from his first book, which was still selling well enough to pay the bills and put food on the table, but he was by no means well off, as could be seen from the lack of luxury which surrounded him. His apartment was nothing fancy, just a flat he rented outside of town; his only means of transportation the Harley that was his pride and joy. "The Book", as it had come to be called, was a constant reminder of what he could do if he put his mind to it. He'd been called a genius, touted as being the next Hemingway, a multitude of praise he could never quite swallow. Hemingway. There was only one. There would never be another, no matter how badly he wanted to be as great.
He'd sat at the keyboard for hours on end, hammering away at one idea or another, until he thought his brain would explode. Day after day, night after night, it was always the same, until he grew so frustrated, he thought maybe he should fall back on his thus-far useless English degree and join the masses of zombified-office workers who made their exodus to and from the city in droves every day from nine to five, or thereabouts. It wasn't the life he'd expected or wanted for himself, and whatever praise he was still getting for his one Great American Novel had long since worn thin. Lightning doesn't always strike twice, he'd been told by several publishers, a handful of manuscripts rejected and trashed. Try again. And again. And again.
Michael reached for the bottle to refill his glass for the umpteen thousandth time, it seemed, seeking inspiration at the bottom of a bottle or a glass, annoyed to find there was nothing left. When had he drained it' He couldn't remember. No matter. He checked his watch for the time. It was nearly nine o'clock. If he hurried, he'd have just enough time to make it to the local liquor store before it closed and grab another bottle of liquid gold inspiration. He shoved his fingers through his hair and grabbed his jacket, keys, and wallet, deciding to walk the two blocks to the little liquor store where the owner knew him by name. It was a hell of a lot better than having to go to a bar, where people would want to socialize. Once they found out who he was, there would be the usual barrage of questions. Michael Donnelly' The guy who wrote that best-seller a few years back" Man, I saw the movie. It was awesome. When are you gonna write another" Blah, blah, blah. It was always the same.
Just his luck, he thought as he stepped out onto the street and felt the first raindrops pelt him from above. Like liquid ice, he thought. It's going to turn to snow soon. He pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, inadequate warmth against the cold, wet rain, but he wouldn't be long. He hurried along the dark streets, his head ducked low against the raindrops that were pelting him like tiny shards of ice slicing at his head and neck. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep warm, quickening his pace, his thoughts riveted on one thing and one thing only - that bottle of amber courage. He bumped into someone, taking little notice of the jostling or the angry words shouted his way, mumbling an apology he didn't feel or mean, so he could continue on his way. When at last he finally reached his destination, it was only to find he was too late. The store had already closed, the object of his desire locked up inside, tighter than Fort Knox.
He thought about breaking in, but that would just be stupid, when he could easily find a bar that would be more than happy to fulfill his needs. He sagged in the doorway and pressed his forehead against the cold, wet glass, looking at the reflection of his own face that looked back at him. You son of a bitch. Look at what you've become. You could have made something of your life, but instead, you're nothing but a loser.
"No, I'm not," he said aloud to no one, but his own reflection. "I'm just in transition," he muttered, something he'd heard some writer friend of his once tell him when they were between novels, but that friend had found his muse and gone on to write several more, leaving Michael in the dust, alone with his misery. A writer's life is a lonely life, he'd told himself more than once, making any excuse he could for being alone. He had to focus on his craft; he couldn't afford to invest in a long-term relationship. It would only distract him, but without any love in his life, without any meaning, he'd lost all his inspiration.
He heard a distant roll of thunder as if from far off, moving closer, and he turned toward the sound of it, lifting his gaze to the sky, rain running down his face to mingle with tears he didn't even realize he was crying. He slid down the front of the door to rest on the stoop, drawing the jacket around him, his only source of warmth, soaked to the skin in the freezing rain and not even caring. How had he come to this, he thought to himself. Freezing to death and dying of exposure. It was either that or withdrawal and one was just as unpleasant a prospect as the other.
As it turned out, he wasn't going to have a chance to experience either, as a man stepped into his view, looming as large as a mountain, it seemed from his point of view. "Gimme your wallet," the man demanded, in a tone of voice that left no room for argument.
"F*ck you," Michael replied, his wallet containing the last of his cash and it was already earmarked for a fresh bottle of bourbon. "Don't make me kick your *ss," he continued, with feigned bravado or foolish arrogance. Why didn't they just leave him in peace, for God's sake"
He was no midget, tall and strapping and of Irish-Italian descent. There was a time when such a threat held substance, but that when he was sober. This was not that time, and the larger man picked him up off the ground like he weighed no more than a child and shoved him against the glass.
"I said your wallet. Give it to me or else," he threatened again, eyes flashing like firecrackers in the night. Or was it the lightning" In Michael's alcohol-induced brain, it was hard to tell.
"Go f*ck yourself," he muttered again, rewarded for his reply with a fist that felt like he'd just collided with a wall, which in all actuality, he had. Sliding down the brick wall of the liquor store, he collapsed on the ground, feeling something warm trickling down his forehead. It couldn't be rain. The rain was cold, and this felt warm. Through the numbness of his brain, he felt someone rifling through his jacket, taking the last of his cash, and tossing the wallet back at him to land in a puddle near his head that was turning a strange shade of red. "Son of a bitch," he muttered to himself, his tongue thick, like he had a fever.
He tried to blink, to lift himself off the street, but his vision swam as if he was on a ship at sea, riding out a storm. He knew he was slipping into oblivion, sweet, peaceful oblivion. Maybe if he was lucky, he wouldn't wake up. Maybe if he was lucky, he could go back in time, fix his mistakes, and none of this would have ever happened. A woman's face wavered in front of his field of vision, but it was only a hallucination. She wasn't real. She was too beautiful to be real. All golden-haired like an angel. He'd seen her before. He'd even dated her once. But that seemed like a million years ago. A lifetime ago. "Elena," he muttered, just as his world started turning black. "Elena, I miss you."
It seemed all of his life was playing itself out right before his eyes, like watching his own life on a movie screen. His head throbbed with a pain that was no longer just that of a simple need for a drink, and he realized as he watched his life play out before his mind's eye that he'd failed, this his life had come to nothing, and that it all went back to that one precious moment in time when he'd lost the only thing that had made life worth living. "If I could only see you one more time....Things would be different. I swear..." He wasn't sure if he'd spoken the words or merely thought them. Everything went black, and he lost all conscious thought of what happened after that.
The gentle creep of some sweet energy wrapped about Michael where he lay, gathering the dejected, frustrated, unconscious man into unseen arms, sweeping him from one plane to the next in a single moment. Rain turned to snow, and the water that soaked him through was dried as if by magic. Instead of the cold hard ground, he was laid between warm soft sheets, so gently not even the original occupier of those sheets noticed his arrival. Night trickled slowly onward into day, the sounds of the house he had been left in announcing the rising and leaving of three people in succession. But the lithe limbed form he had been laid beside ....now she didn't stir until the hour had begun to tick onward to midday and the inevitability of awakening.