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By jharris1

The reassuring burning ignites a fire along his throat as the vodka works it’s magic, tearing at his mind and blurring the edges of his madness.
Staring at the fan spinning overhead he can no longer understand why he goes through this, whether it’s his own doing or if it’s normal so he reaches for another drink; the only thing that still dulls the pain. Is it even pain that he feels or is it self imposed torment inflicted as a punishment for being such a failure to those around him.
With a life leading nowhere and desire for a relationship that will never be he just takes another drink and works his mind through the shades of grey that now inhabit his mind. No more right or wrong, just the grey of indecision and confusion. He doesn’t even know what makes him happy any longer for he has worn so many masks to fit so many roles and to please so many people, he has forgotten who he is and has forever been lost to the times. Trudging from one encounter to the next with his masks and an empty heart, a heart that longs not to be loved but to find one to love; wanting only to give his heart to someone he searches eternally but to no avail. What woman would call this broken shell a man? What woman would accept someone like him, he does not even know who he is let alone who he wants to be.
With another long swig of the now comforting liquid he reaches for his cigarettes but his hand pauses above the packet, instead he reaches for a small container and begins rolling himself a spliff; his mind, his hope both have deserted him so no reason in living wise he jokes to himself as he lights it. The sickly sweet smoke drifts past his eyes causing them to shudder much as his hope does, he pushes aside that feeling of being a waste and places on the mask of the artist. The tragic young writer who deserves sympathy for his terrible past as he has now redeemed himself by playing at being sorry, he will never be sorry, he doesn’t care for those he hurt or those that hurt him. He just wants to meet his end, he wants that last drink and the private smile that he gives himself to be played out and to never wake from his stupor.
His phone buzzes, a message from her. It is the woman he loves, the woman who loves him also.
Yet he can never be good enough for her, he is her rock and she gives him a reason to live on in this degenerate state. He will never have her but he stills tortures himself by being there for her, by letting her turn to him when distraught and in need of a strong shoulder; he feels his heart wrench and his stomach churn as he opens the message.
Another fight, his knuckles go white and his eyes close as he inhales deeply; he longs for the time when he can punish the unworthy cretin that is upsetting her yet again.
He gives her reassuring words, he makes her remember how utterly angelic she is.
He puts the phone aside and takes another draw of the spliff, his mind races, a pull of the vodka calms that feeling; that evil feeling that might incite his hope of having her.
He has to kill it before it takes root, he can’t let himself give over to a person in such a way or he may very well lose himself.

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16 Jan, 2012
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3 mins
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