Rough Days

A sinking feeling, which had settled into the deep pit of Steve's stomach—making it rumbling and twirling in an uncomfortable feeling, almost like vomit (and maybe it is it)—had settled free a greedy needing—none temptation with the sickly sweet mind alluring whispers—just desperate urgency, to drink as much Whiskey and Rum—and perhaps any other hard liquor in a big mixing—tonight, till Steve blacks out into an alcoholic poisoned coma.

Stepping into his house, Steve kicked his shoes off—not caring to put them onto the rack, how's he supposed to do and should—venturing into the kitchen, discarding his gun and badge—tossing them with carelessly onto the counter, creating a echoing thud—Steve racked through the cupboard for his special glas.

Sighing out a heavy breath, Steve goes into the living room—Television still on, meaning his husband still awake and Steve dreaded it to face you—crouching down to the small cabinet, clicking off the child-lock and taking out the best looking bottle.

Steve poured himself some Whiskey before stopping halfway and deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.

Sitting here on the carpet floor, staring at the television—some drama and romance series being shown—and Steve thinks, while taking two more gulps of the heavy throat burning vanilla coated liquor, just how rough his job could be sometimes and just how cruel this world in reality is.

Sometimes Steve also wonders if he should even continue with what he does—the job he loves to do for living, to bring justice and arresting criminals—having thought about to maybe go into another field career of job, something more less dangerous and harmful—in both, psychical and mental ways—like being a teacher at the police academy or some office job perhaps.

But those fleeting thoughts of another career—to have a more peaceful life and not putting his family in any sort of endangerment—are always pushed back into the depths of mind, never starting to occur back again in his daily routine—till today.

Steve didn't know himself how deep he was in the clusters of his racing mind—like a hurricane through a highway—and how many bottles of Whiskey and Rum he drank—while watching without any focus those shows on the television—but when he heard your voice, glancing at your direction, Steve thought you're nothing but a hallucinations and came to the conclusion he did drank more than just above average amounts.

~~~•~~~

Coming down into the living room—after comforting your youngest son from a nightmare and then hopping quickly into the shower—you were surprised to see Steve sitting there, because he normally greets you when he comes home.

What also surprises you—and causes a spark of worry—were the empty bottles of Whiskey and Rum next to him and Steves unfocused gaze.

Of course Steve does drinks sometimes—one to three glasses—be it either of celebrations—because they solved a case or took down a high ranking criminal successfully—or when one of his days did get a bit rough, but never in such a excessive amount.

Taking the empty bottles and the half-full one from Steve hands—he does protest about it, grunting in a whine—you walked into the kitchen, throwing them into the trash—giving a short glance at the open laying gun, before resuming back to Steve.

Sitting down next to your husband, patting his knee for attention—Steve doesn't respond tho, gaze still drawn to the television or the space next to it.

»You okay Steve?« you asked and when Steve turned his head to you—eyes brimming, the minimal lights made it look like a glistening, with tears—whispering a „No." you knew something must've happened at work to make Steve greedily chucking down liquor.