Short Stories

7.] Blame it on the Alcohol

7.]  Blame it on the Alcohol

(Weston's Point of View...)

Everything was so fast. It was out of my control.

I know it was my fault. I know I should have been more careful. I know that... I should have been more attentive, maybe I would have seen them coming.

She still gives me the looks, and she still damages me with her bitter words of criticism and blame. I would keep telling myself that it was not my fault, that there was nothing I could have done... but neither she nor I will believe me and it is not like it is true.

I should have seen the car coming. I should have hit the brakes. Maybe then Toby would still be with us.

The guilt that weighs me down is unbelievable. The pain that eats at me is unbearable. I lost my job, my friends, my wife. It almost makes me want to hate her from the way she treats me, I thought that surely she'd understand and forgive me. I thought she would help and we would stick together to get through this incredulously hard time. My expectations were wrong when she heard the news. She screamed profanity at me, cursing me with every harsh word there ever was.

I could not blame her at that moment, she was grieving. She was heartbroken. I was too. I was the one that killed him.

I was the one that killed our son.

He was only 6 years old. He was innocently playing with his action figures in the backseat and smiling in his own little world. I always loved that about him, I always loved that he could always figure out something to do and he didn't need anyone to keep him occupied—apart from me and his mother. He always enjoyed it when me or his mother played with him and laughed at all of his jokes. He loved that.

It has been 5 years now. He would be 11 by this time. I constantly remember being in that car and not hitting the brakes fast enough to save him. It does not help that Amelia keeps reminding me of how idiotic and how much of an asshole I am.

I sit down on the stool and stare at the counter before ordering a drink, desperate for something to make the pain less... evident. I wish there was something to make me forget. I wish there was something to make it all not so overwhelming. Why can't there be anyone on my side?

Everyone says I should have been driving slower. I should have been more careful. I should have been more aware. I should've paid attention. I shouldn't have been so careless as to cause damage to our son. All of my family couldn't hate me more, there is no way to miss the contempt they hold over me.

They'll have casual conversations and then cast me hateful glances, they'll make snide remarks and get pissed with me anytime I try to talk to them. They exclude me out of all conversations and make harsh jokes about my driving skills. No one laughs. No one ever laughs.

I lean my head back as I gulp down the scotch, the liquid burning my throat while still somehow soothing me. I can understand why my father always drank now—it's numbing.

A guy sits down on the stool to my left, looking over at me after getting his drink.

"What's your name?" He asks in mild curiosity and I stare at the glass in my hand, sighing slightly.

"Weston." I answer quietly before sipping at my drink.

"Cool name. Mine's Carson." I nod in acknowledgment and he continues watching me. "So, what happened to you? No offense, but you look like one of those types of people who're ready to jump off a bridge."

I laugh slightly and shake my head, releasing a sigh of utter surrender. I guess I just give up.

"That does not sound too unappealing right now." I laugh, which makes him frown while concern pools in his blue eyes.