Shadows of the Past

Desperate Measures

Thomas sat at the bar, the cool glass pressed between his fingers as he drained the last of his fourth whiskey. His eyes, unfocused, wandered beyond the dim light of the room, settling nowhere. A soft glow flickered from his phone, another text from Sarah. He sighed, a deep, weary exhale, and flipped the phone face down, as if the simple act could muffle the noise of the life waiting for him on the other side of the screen.

"How about a refill, Tom?" the bartender asked, already holding the whiskey bottle poised over the glass.

Thomas gave a slow nod, watching as amber liquid cascaded into his glass once again. He took a sip, letting the warmth spread through him, when his phone buzzed on the counter. At first, he ignored it, assuming it was Sarah, persistent as ever. But the steady vibration grated at him until he relented, picking up the phone. The name on the screen wasn't hers. It was Steve.

"What do you want?" Thomas mumbled, barely lifting the phone to his ear.

"Where are you? You're late!" Steve's voice shot through the receiver, sharp with impatience. "Tom... this is your last chance. Don't screw it up."

Thomas let out a heavy sigh, the sound weighted with exhaustion, before hanging up. He drained the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp, the burn chasing away the lingering bitterness, and tossed a couple of twenties onto the counter. As he stood, dizziness overtook him, the room tilting under his feet. Gripping the barstool for balance, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself.

"Call me a cab, Jerry, would you?" he muttered, voice slurred but resigned.

Driving was out of the question in his state. Thomas tightened his grip on the barstool, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He cursed himself for giving in to the bottle again, the very thing that had led him down this path in the first place. He couldn't afford to lose control—not now, not with so much at stake. He had to pull himself together. For James. For Emma.

As the cab screeched to a halt in front of the courthouse, Thomas staggered out, nearly collapsing onto the pavement. Steve, stationed on the stone steps, rushed forward to catch him, steadying him with a firm hand.

"You look like hell!" Steve exclaimed, his concern evident as he took in Thomas's disheveled state. "Have you been drinking at Jerry's again? Pull yourself together, man. You'll need all your wits if you want to get your kids back."

Thomas stumbled into the courthouse, the sound of his shoes against the marble floors echoing like a drumbeat in his head. Steve settled onto a nearby bench, his eyes fixed on Thomas as he made his unsteady way toward the table. Inside the courtroom, the tension was thick enough to choke on. His ex-wife, Sarah, sat with her arms crossed, her face a mask of fury and contempt. Beside her, her parents, Gerald and Margaret, glared at him with disdain, their judgment piercing him before he'd even reached his seat. Steve shot him a look that blended worry with quiet support, nodding subtly, as if to say, I've got your back, but you're not making this easy .

"You're late," the judge said, not bothering to hide the disappointment in her voice as Thomas finally slouched into his seat. She gave him a hard look over her glasses.

"Apologies, Your Honor," Thomas muttered, his words slightly slurred, though he tried to cover it. His suit was wrinkled, the collar of his shirt open. His hands trembled as he tried to save face, not that it mattered much anymore. Everyone in the room already knew how this would end.

Sarah's lawyer wasted no time. "Your Honor, Mr. Sullivan's tardiness and his state today only confirm what we have been arguing for months. He is not fit to be the custodial parent of James and Emma."