Bittersweet

Don't Interrupt My Booze Binge

          He died. He died and that’s all I can think of. I should be cherishing the vast variety of moments that we had shared together. Yet he died, and that is the only damned thing I can think of. It’s been a whole year on this exact date that he died. I have spent 31,536,000 seconds thinking about him, every single second. He’s been an impediment in my head for 365 days, 8,760 hours, and 525,600 minutes and I honestly don’t know what my next move is. I don’t know how to cross. I don’t even know if I am ready to cross it. Sometimes my thoughts get a little deeper than the thought of him, but not by much. Anything that doesn’t have to do with him makes me want to puke, because it just reminds me of all the things he would be enjoying right now.

           No one has tried to save me, so why should I even attempt to try and save myself? I wonder if I will just stay wallowing around in my own self pity incontrovertibly drowning myself with sadness. I wish he was here to pull me out of this thing that I’m in, and that sounds really pathetic right? I don’t wish he was here so he can be enjoying his life; I want him here so he can save me again. I just wish so badly that I could’ve saved him, and I couldn’t and it’s quite frankly all my fault that he’s gone. He’s haunting my head, and I don’t know if I love him or if I hate him. Do I still love him? Or is this hate boiling up inside of me just waiting to detonate? I don’t know, and I’m too exhausted to care.

           I wish this line would move a little faster so I could go home and drink this bottle. This has become my routine: drinking myself silly every night, then falling asleep, and not quite remembering much of my thoughts from the night previous; even though I’ve got a pretty good guess. Finally after a couple of memories flashing through my weary head I’m pulled out of thought by the man at the counter. He nodded at the bottle of Vodka, and eyed me questionably.

          “You going to drink this all by yourself miss?”

          “No I got guests over at my house for a while.” This is the first thing closest to a conversation that I have had for a while. I hate it, and I feel like the man will deny me of my bittersweet escape. I can almost taste the bitter tang on my lips, and the soothing burn slithering down the back of my throat.

          “I’ve been seeing you a lot lately, you sure you got company?”

          “Yes I’m sure that I have company!” I reply pretending to be offended, it’s not that bad to show emotion all the time. Plus, I just need this man to scan the vodka and take the money so I can leave.

          “I can see it in your eyes you know. You don’t have to lie to me, I’ve been there before.” His face looks saddened and tired when the words slide gradually out of his mouth.

          “You’ve been where exactly? Can you just scan the damn stuff already?” I snap and now I’m half interested and half pissed off. What was this guys’ problem. He’s obviously not a good sales man; he should probably pick a more appropriate career.

          “I’ve been sad. When you try to smile it doesn’t reach your eyes. Hell, it barely even reaches your lips. Your voice is so cold, so worn. I don’t know what happened to you, but it took everything out of you.”