The Bells

Bottle

He looked at the decanter of whiskey. One drop, too help him sleep, that's what he needed. He walked to the the small table, knowing what he was doing was wrong, going through all the reasons in his head. 'Never drink too forget, never drink alone, the answers not at the bottom of a bottle' He didn't deserve to forget anyway, not after what he had done.

He found himself pouring the drink in to a glass. Just a drop at first, but he kept pouring. More and more, until  the tumbler was almost over flowing. He bought the drink up to his lips, the strong fumes burning his eyes, causing them to fill with tears, causing his nose to run.

The strong liquor burnt his tongue, his throat. He filled the glass again and again until there was none left in the bottle. As each sip passed his lips, he became more and more aware of a blessed numbness, a numbness that soon grew to a darkness, to an oblivion. A place he wasn't aware of anything, not his name, his address, not, wonderfully, his crimes.

From then on he existed in a drunken haze, not really sure of anything but the need for another hour or so of oblivion. Sometimes be was aware enough to register being bathed by his man servent, having his clothes changed, food being forced down his throat. At his most aware he was conscience of a return to baby hood. It was at these times he most needed another drink.

At one of these moments, one when he knew were he was, he saw a newspaper article proclaiming the execution of a murder, a Matthew Daugherty. He suddenly felt worse, he had wanted to go, not out of some ghoulish desire to see the death of one so evil, but out of...of, he didn't know. Respect?

The article went on to recite Matthew last words
'Many of you here believe I am evil, depraved, diabolical. To put it simply you believe I am...bad. And I am, bad, not because I killed, because that is one deed I am innocent of, but because I caused the death, the murder. In fact, I am more guilty then the man who pulled the trigger, immeasurable so. This, along with some residue of decency left over from times long since past, caused me to confess to one of the few crimes I did not commit. Ironically, the 'guilty' man probably wishes he was here in my place. Filled with remorse, with guilt, both because he killed and because he believes he should take his punishment he believes he deserves it. What he doesn't know is that he is a good man and deserves to live, not to die the death of a fellon.
He is the type of man who gives to charities, is kind to those around him, meets with men like me who have betrayed him and intend to do so again. He protects others, even those he doesn't like, has never met, out of the sheer goodness of his heart. A trait that seems almost laughable to me, but is still beautiful in its innocence and naivety, as he truly see good in people.
Now, he is not perfect, no where near, but he is more perfect the me. I just hope he  understands why I am here, not because I want him to hide away, to hate himself, but because I know he will do far more good then I ever could and has done far less bad.

He wiped a tear off his cheek, smiled and felt some of the guilt he had been carrying around, for what felt like centuries. He knew now how could go on.

He could survive.