The Beer, The Impending Doom And A Glass Of Whiskey

 

“And on my deathbed I will pray to the gods and the angels,

Like a pagan to anyone who will take me to heaven;

To a place I recall, I was there so long ago.

The sky was bruised, the wine was bled, and there you led me on.”

 

Surrounded by people I call friends, surrounded by people I call relatives, holding onto my beer, firmly.

 

Voices all around me. Making noise and not sense. Attacking me.

 

I hate gatherings. I hate being surrounded. I do not feel good. In fact, I feel awful.

 

In my head, the movie begins:

I am standing up on the table, throwing the bottle to the ground. The sound of broken glass makes everyone to look at me.

And then I start to yell. To each of them I tell everything I wanted to tell for a long time, but I didn’t, ’cause I was polite.

But not tonight.

After I told what I had to say, I break at least two tables and chairs. One chair is thrown into a window.

I can feel glass flying right into me, sticking into my flesh, the warmth of blood leaking slowly down my body.

And if that’s not enough, there’s always a Glock to finish the situation.

 

But the beer is not cold anymore.

And I’m on the verge of an incident.

Laughing next to me, my friend poured accidentally a glass of wine, ruining her perfect dress with lovely flowers.

To me, the dress looks so much better now.

 

I am getting of the table and walking away without saying goodbye.

I hear my name being called, but I’m not turning or responding.

 

The car, the road and me.

 

“Save me from myself, save me from myself….”, repeating into my mind like a broken record player.

 

After few cuts I’ll be fine. Pouring a full glass of whiskey makes me almost happy. The sound and the scent of the glass filling to the top.

Killing the beast is not easy, and I will do all I can, to make it go away.

 

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