The Premonition?

“My name is Paul Reynolds and I’m an alcoholic.”

He’d never said those nine words before. Not out loud anyway. Certainly not to a room full of strangers.

“I haven’t had a drink for seven days.”

He heard applause. People were smiling at him. Happy for him. He felt good about himself for the first time in many, many, years.

“I don’t really know where to start; I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

A voice spoke up from the crowd.

“Doesn’t matter mate, we’ve all been there. Start anywhere you like.”

He thought he recognised the guy. An aging ex-professional footballer. He took a deep breath; he could feel his eyes beginning to moisten.

“Sorry, sorry.”

He heard another voice.

“Take your time mate, there’s no rush.”

He composed himself and began.

“I suppose it ended last Thursday. A week ago today. I just fell to my knees and started to cry, couldn’t stop. I prayed. Crazy really because I don’t believe in god. So fuck knows who I was praying to. It was a cry for help, I suppose. You see I ran out of lies. I’d been telling them for so long that it became a way of life. I even began to believe them myself. You know the sort of thing, late for the kid’s school play, sorry there was an accident on the motorway or late for a meeting, sorry the car wouldn’t start. Even convinced myself that when I woke up feeling like shit because I’d drunk two bottles of scotch the night before, that perhaps I’d caught some kind of bug. All bollocks, all lies.”

He looked out into the crowd, he could see people nodding their heads as if they recognised they’re own story in his.

“I hid it everywhere; booze that is, even though I live on my own. I still hid it. How crazy is that? Maybe I was convincing myself that because I couldn’t see it, I didn’t have a problem. The kids stopped coming round to visit ages ago. I was never indoors anyway, always down the pub. Any excuse. Someone’s birthday, someone’s leaving do, catching up with mates, as I said, any fucking excuse. That’s why the wife left me. I was never there for her. Never. When she was having the kids I was down the pub, when either her or the kids were ill, even when the youngest was rushed into hospital with a heart problem, I was pissed somewhere.”

He started to cry. He took a moment, wiped his eyes and continued.

“My Mum died last year, my lovely old Mum. I was supposed to go round and see her in the home she was in. I knew she wasn’t well, knew she was on her last legs. But didn’t go. Better things to do, like get pissed with me mates again. Even when I got the call to say she’d died. Guess what I did then, go and see her? No. Ordered another round to toast her departure. Stayed in the pub all day, drowning me sorrows, people buying me drinks telling me how sorry they were about Mum. I loved it, loved all the attention, it was a great excuse to get really, really pissed.”

His head was lowered looking at the floor. He was so ashamed of himself.

“I just became sick and tired of it all. The lies, the deceit, the total bollocks of it all. Then last Thursday something just happened. I don’t know what it was, but I knew I’d had enough. Sat there and cried for hours on end.”

There was a noise. A ringing noise. It got louder and louder until he stretched out his arm and turned the alarm off. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. He felt like shit. He was trying to remember the dream he’d just had, something about talking out loud to a load of strangers. What the fuck was that all about? He sat up and reached for the bottle on the bedside cabinet. He took a long swig.

“That’s better. Ready to face another day.”

He looked at the calendar. It was Thursday. Only two hours to go before the pub opened.