Sobriety Is Super Overrated

Pretty Things That Kill

I bolt up. I'm not quite sure exactly where I fell asleep last night, but where ever I was it surely wasn't in this bed.....Or in these clothes. I look down to see that I'm currently wearing someone else's navy silk pyjamas, and sitting in someone else's king sized bed. 

The cute blond from last night quietly opens the bedroom door to check if I'm awake.

"Hey." My voice is groggy from having just woke up.

"I almost considered taking you to the hospital last night. I didn't know what you took."

"Well. I appreciate that. If you could just give me some money for a taxi, I'll make my way home and be out of your way."

I get up off the bed. At the very least I wasn't drunk. Or if I was I clearly didn't drink enough to give me a migraine. Although I am feeling a bit nauseous.

I think that his pyjamas are suitable enough for me to walk around in public with. But I probably still need my old clothes back.

He pulled out his wallet and handed me a twenty dollar bill. Of course, I wasn't going to waste it on a taxi. That would be utterly ridiculous. Instead every last bit of it and anything I can steal from this place will all be used to fund my drug addiction.

"Here." He passes me the twenty. "And you'll probably need your clothes back." He left to go get my clothes. Leaving me the prefect opportunity to steal whatever item of value  he had hidden in this lovely place called home. In the far corner of the room there's a vanity and a jewelry box. This must be the wife's room. I wonder if she knows he's an exotic dancer?

I steal the small jewelry box and tuck in carefully under my shirt so that it's not noticeable. He comes back just in time.

My old clothes are in a neat folded pile on top of my jacket. I grab the clothes and throw the jacket on.

"Well. I'll be on my way now." I let myself out, trying to look for anything I can pawn on my way out. I see a nice rifle on display in his living room, I take that too. The rifle brings back old memories. Most of the opposing soldiers in Vietnam had been carrying these. In fact, it was probably the gun that killed Dave. I'm holding a copy of the gun that killed Dave. Somehow that freaks me out more than I thought it would. I don't like holding it. I feel like there's blood on my hands. I feel like his blood is on my hands. For a spilt second, I'm back in Vietnam. Holding onto Dave, helplessly watching him die.  I tried to help him but no one came.

I walk down the boulevard. The guy who took me back to his place he sure does have a nice garden. There's a wide assortment of flowers, all different types, but most of them are pink and red. There's a few poppies.

Why does everything remind me of war? Of Vietnam and all the god awful things that I've seen? Why can't I just be allowed to put it all behind me and move on with my life? But at the same time I'm not surprised that I remember. I promised Dave once that I would never forget. I would always remember all the people who died. Even if I wanted to I don't think I really could forget.

When you see something you wish you hadn't, sometimes it can't help but be burned into your brain.

My messed up childhood had already left me nearly broken.

And then I'd just used drugs to patch up the wound.

And now Vietnam has completely destroyed me.

Dave had been the one holding the pieces together.

I walk down the street, still trying to hide what I just stole in case he notices. I partly still can't believe I let the guy who looks like Dave take me home. I partly still can't believe I just stole from the guy who looks like Dave. As soon as I turn the corner I sprint. I need to pawn this stuff before he notices it's missing.

I'm running with a gun in my hands. Somehow it feels like Vietnam all over again. Somehow it feels like I'm getting ready to fight for no reason and kill for no reason and hurt people for no reason. Everything we did back there was for no reason. Everything that happened, happened for no reason, but somehow it was just so fucking important to him. To Dave. I never understood why he cared so much. About a stupid war that was no use fighting in the first place. But whenever I said that he claimed that I was wrong. That there was a use for fighting. And that the he was fighting for peace.

I remember the first time I was out on the battlefield. It was right when I escaped from Cha Cha and Hazel and had decided to steal that stupid briefcase. All I did was open it a bit and the next thing I know I'm in Vietnam. I was still wearing that stupid leopard print underwear, when suddenly I'm in a tent and someone's shouting at me to get some pants on and go fight. I wish I didn't remember, but unfortunately, I happened to be sober enough to remember every last detail.

It wasn't the first time I'd ever killed someone. Nor was it the first time I'd ever held a gun. I'd done tons of dangerous stuff like that on missions all the time. But all the times that we went on missions, the people we were attacking were criminals. People with lower morals. Not that I had more morals than them, but just that they did worse stuff. They hurt other people. And in the eyes of dear old dad, we were doing the world a favour by killing them. Technically with all the things I've stolen in order to get drugs, I qualify as a criminal now. But still, back then at least there was some sort of method to the madness.

Instead Vietnam was the first time that I ever killed someone who was innocent. Completely innocent and entirely undeserving of it. It was an accident. I never meant to. In the end, I don't even know if it was my bullet. All I know it that bullets were flying everywhere. No one really knew what they were aiming at, but just that it was supposed to be 'kill or be killed'. We were hiding down in badly built trenches and looking up meant risking getting shot at, and no matter how well the helmets had been built, getting shot in the head usually meant death. I remember me going out there and feeling the cold and craziness of it. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't even know how I got there or what was happening. People were yelling and shooting and yelling at me to shot too. So I did.

Streamers of red burst from his chest the moment I hit him. The kid couldn't have been more than 14, why would they let him onto the battlefield? He was supposed to be flag bearer, but he was no longer waving around his flag. Instead it lay in a crumple heap underneath him, his body lay twisted in an abnormal position because of the way he had fallen.

That was the first time I had ever killed someone who I knew didn't deserve it. I still feel the guilt. I knew he shouldn't have died. He should have lived and retired and had his whole life ahead of him, but instead it was cut short by me. I know drinking probably won't fix it. I know that he probably would have been hit by someone else anyway. And that the kid probably doesn't even know it was me and can't come back to haunt me, but none of those things change the fact that I feel guilty about it.

I run a few more blocks and then slow down to a walk. I'm in worse shape than I remember being. Maybe it's the drugs. Maybe its the fact that working out reminds me of when I was training with the Academy.

Finally, I arrive at a pawn shop.

Finally, I can get money for my next fix.

Finally, this can all be over with.