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In his hand, he holds a pin that's marked "5 YEARS SOBER!". Sitting at the foot of his bed, he fumbles it between his two first fingers and thumb. He notices the pads of his fingertips are calloused from the wear and tear of his set; barely he can feel the smoothness of the object in his hands.
Pulling out his cellphone, he punches in the numbers to unlock his phone. It vibrates. The numbers are wrong. He remembers that this was a new phone, that he changed his passcode. Tightening his jaw, he lets his body slump over, hanging his head back as he looks up to the ceiling with a sigh. Pondering. Mulling over in his mind the words he wants to say. Focusing back on his phone, he holds down the 'home' button to speak into his phone. "Call She". She. She's been in his phone as that name for as long as he could remember. Because no one needs to know who She is. If anything were to be kept private about his life, this was, singlehandedly, the one thing he wanted to stay that way. The tone rang. And rang. And rang. Voicemail. When it beeped, he paused for just a moment, swallowing hard before speaking: "They say that being sober is the best feeling in life. That a clear mind is freedom. What they don't account for is that every singe day, every single hour of that day, every single minute of that hour of that day, every single second of that minute of that hour of that day - is a battle. They sugarcoat it. They tell you that it's going to be hard, but doable. They tell you that there's always support, no matter where you are. That there's understanding. That there's hope. But what they don't tell you, is how badly it hurts to want something you know will destroy you. How the itch gets stronger, gets louder, until that's all you can ever think about, especially. Especially, when something goes wrong. Something's gone wrong. Five years fucking sober and all I get is a pin. A fucking pin." Another pause. Another tightening of the jaw. Another sigh. He hangs up the call and places his phone onto the bed. The pin still in his hand and he looks down. "Five years fucking sober." he says to himself, squeezing the pin into his hand before quickly, harshly, throwing it at the wall to his right. It makes a slight noise before dropping to the floor. Standing up, he grabs his phone and shoves it into his pocket while moving towards the nightstand. Picking up the watered down glass of whiskey, he downs it before grabbing his keys and leaving the room. Pulling out his phone, again he hits the home button, "Call Roman." "Hey. Yeah. I need that hook up now. Sorry I left you hanging." |