28th
It’s raining out. Even through the closed window I can tell it’s that cold penetrating rain. That rain that falls like the icy fingers from an old ex-lover walking over your grave. I get shivers up and down my spine just looking at the poor fools walking below the window, covering themselves with whatever they can grab in a futile attempt to keep dry. I just know I’m going to have to go out in that mess, it’s just that kind of night.
I spin around in my chair to face my desk, the cigarette in my mouth leaving a thin line showing where it used to be. I pull open the top drawer and stare at it for a while. In the back is a picture of my Sheila, who left me so long ago. In the front, side by side, are a pistol and a small bottle of Jack Daniels. This time, as always, I opt for the bottle, and close the drawer. Next time it will be the pistol, so help me god.
I take a swig of the stuff, and it erupts in my throat. Every swig I can tell is one step closer to eating through those soft walls. The doctors say so too. I open the drawer to replace the bottle, and there again is my Sheila and my pal, my Colt Anaconda. Damn the doctors, a hole in my throat is better than one in my head today. I slam the drawer in a fit of sudden pain, and grip at my chest. Could this be it? A rupture that makes me gush blood and other less pleasant liquids in and around my insides? Oh if only.
But no, it passes and I can finally unclench. I look up to see a shadow just outside my door. A female shadow, swaying back and forth lightly, neither coming nor going. She’s going to knock, I just know it, and I’m going to have to head out in that mess. Well damnit lady, I haven’t got all night to go run your little errand, so you’d better knock soon!
