John almost never drank alone. He was strong. He always tried to be strong. He knew he had failed in such task a few times in the past, but the tide was strong and the solutions harsh, so he broke. Anyone would have, or so he told himself.
He opened the bottle. Three quarters of vodka. That will do it.
The first shot was fire in his throat.
He thought about how many times normal people considered suicide in their lives. He knew he was not normal. He knew he was a maniac depressive, for as long as he could remember. The pills always did the trick. He was a functional man now.
He was a functional defeated man. He was alone, scared and angry.
He had done something bad.
He could never forget it. How could he? it was one year already, and he had nightmares as he had nights.
He remembered everything, the stupor, the speed, the cracking sound of his leg, the metal shrieking, the shock his brain instantly directed through every nervous terminal in his body. He remembered the shards off glass in his mouth, like diamond sugar.
He never saw the body.
In the hospital, they told him it was a girl, or a woman, twenty something, a prostitute, with one brother somewhere in middle america. She was a junkie, one of the doctors said.
John's father was rich. He flew in from Helsinki, the thing was settled and little drunken Johnny walked away.
One woman for another, he thought. Not even knowing why.
Everything was about a woman.
He was not any kind of an alpha man. He never loved a woman. Except Jane. Jane was so beautiful and smart, he couldn't stop thinking about her. And then she fucked her teacher for a grade, loved it and dumped little sad Johnny. He couldn't make her change her mind. So john, now heart broken, drank some vodka and killed a prostitute.
He had another shot and kicked a chair that violently smashed itself to a wall.
He felt like a death row prisoner in his apartment and took the bottle and headed outside, as if he was facing a demon.