BLACK ROSE

The desperate bottle of bourbon that calls for desperate times

Alex. 

I know I should sleep. I'm getting more and more sleep deprived as the days go on, yet I can never get myself to correct my sleeping schedule. I don't feel sleepy, I rarely do. Sleep is something I consider to have the worth of gold for me. At the same time I keep on avoiding it, pushing it away. I wish I could say I have a reason for being awake this late again. Sadly, I don't. All I'm doing is sitting on my bed, staring at the wall and thinking. It's becoming a routine that's slowly draining me. At moments like these, all I can do is patiently sit and wait for at least some will to sleep to take over me.

Eventually, after eleven minutes and thirty six seconds, I leave my room. My mum might still be awake, so perhaps I could join her in doing nothing. Or for a little late night talk, who knows.

To my own surprise, mum's no longer in the living room. Her glass of wine is still standing on the table, though. She must have been very tired if she didn't wash it. It presents a form of an activity for me right now, even if just a little. I take the glass and wash it, taking my time. I feel guilty for causing her all these worries and stress. It's pointless and no good for her already fragile health.

If only I could be a better son.

I end up sitting in our living room, lights turned off, all alone, after midnight. The only sounds I can hear are the sirens and the sound of New York. And the clock ticking in our kitchen. That's my only company at this moment. My eyes are hypnotising the wonderful bottle of bourbon, that is practically hypnotising me back. You see, I don't want to get drunk, I'm just desperate for something. And when people are desperate, they go for alcohol, don't they? Alcohol rarely makes you feel any better to the level you can say it only brings you happiness. In fact, it makes you feel rather worse. But it does make you more comfortable for a moment. It's a never-ending cycle that gets harder to break at desperate times. So I suppose desperate times call for desperate bottles.

As much as I want to take that bottle, I can't steal from my own parents. What kind of a son would I be then? I would totally lower myself, position myself in an even worse position than I already am in. There always seems to open new doors with even more ways to lower myself. I wonder why it's suddenly so hard. Why not last year, why this year? What was different last year that made us all immune to this time? If only I knew the only desperate thing left would be the bottle of bourbon.

I get irritated with myself and my own presence, growing angry at myself with each passing second. If I could channel this anger at the right times, I could change my life. Instead of reaching for the desperate bottle of bourbon, I stand up and walk to the kitchen to make myself a sleeping tea. I've never touched it before, but my mum claims these herbs will calm down my nervous system and help me relax a bit. But because I'm still desperate, I add a few drops of rum into it. It's not a smart combination and nor do I expect it to taste good.

While waiting for the natural drugs to work, I check my phone. There are a couple of new unanswered messages and emails lighting up my screen. Like a real adult I take my time replying to them. They're all uninteresting, except for one. From an unknown number with a short and very simple text. Ace suggested getting a separate phone for my business, but that would just make everything obvious. Thinking about it now, maybe I should've done it all these years ago.

Without thinking what time it actually is, I dial Ace's number. It rings a couple of times and I consider hanging up, when his voice echoes in the phone. "Yeah?"

"Did you give my number to anyone recently?" I ask without any greeting.

"What? "

I repeat my question.

"No, why?"

"Did anyone from Cal's?"

He puts two and two together fast. "You got a new client?"