Another

He screwed up the paper he had been writing on for the last hour and
took out a blank sheet. He ran his hand through his hair. He knew this
would not be easy but it turned out so much harder than he had
imagined. What could he possible say that would explain? How could he
possible ask for forgiveness? He chewed the end of his pen and poured
another drink while he was thinking.


I didn't mean to do it. Yeah, right, like anyone would ever
mean to do something like that. It just happened, right? No one's
fault. Not his fault, anyway.


Except it was his fault, and he knew it. That was the reason
why he was sitting at his desk at 2 o'clock in the morning, trying to
write a letter to explain, but there was no explanation he could give
that would make it any better.


He took a large swig from his glass, held it up to the light
for a moment examining the remaining contents and then emptied it. As
soon as the last drop of Scotch had passed down his throat he put the
glass down and refilled it. This was how it had all started. Damn the
drink. Damn it to hell. He filled his glass to the top.



I'm sorry. Of course he was. When he had woken up he had
been blissfully unaware of what he had done for a few moments, but then
it had all come back to him. He hadn't been that drunk that he wouldn't
remember. Nobody could ever be that drunk to forget something like
that, although right now he wished that he could. Either that or stoned
out of his brain. Anything to forget. Anything at all.


He lit a cigarette and continued to stare at the empty white
sheet in front of him. It reminded him of the sheet that had covered
Sarah. Crisp and white, beautiful and innocent, just like Sarah. He
took another drink, and another. It was doing nothing for him. He put
his head in his hands and cried. Tears fell on the crisp white sheet of
paper and ruined it. Absentmindedly he screwed it up and tossed it into
the wastepaper basket. He got himself a refill.


The bottle was nearly empty. Had it been full when he sat
down to write? He couldn't remember and he didn't really care. Now it
was nearly empty and he had to get another one. Anything to forget. He
stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and stood up to find another
bottle. Holding on to the desk and the bookshelf he made his way across
the room to the drink cabinet. Another bottle of Scotch, a half-empty
bottle of Vodka, some Port. He took a swig from the bottle of Vodka ,
then grabbed the Scotch and worked his way back to the desk.



If I could take it back, I would. If only. That was the
problem though: Taking it back was not an option he was given. It
didn't matter how hard he cried or how much he prayed. It made no
difference that he cursed himself and offered his soul to anyone who
was willing to help him take it back. However much he wanted to, it was
too late. There had been lots of chances before it had happened. He
could have stayed at home that night. He could have chosen not to have
another drink, and another. When Paul told him to sleep on his couch
that night and go home the next morning, he should have listened.



He poured himself another drink and finished the bottle.
Damn the drink. In a fit of anger he threw the empty bottle across the
room against the wall. It shattered into little pieces and the sound it
made reminded him of a gunshot. He unlocked the top drawer of his desk
and looked at the gun in there. When he heard steps outside he quickly
closed the drawer.


"Honey?" The door opened and in the dim light of the desk
lamp he saw the silhouette of his wife. "Honey, are you all right? What
was that noise?"


"Dropped the bottle," he said and tried not to slur his
words. "Go back to bed, Fran, I'm fine."


Fran hovered a moment longer. "Come to bed with me," she
finally said. "You've had enough to drink for tonight."



He just looked at her. Eventually she turned around. "You
are not going to bring Sarah back by drinking yourself into a stupor,"
she said with her back to him before she closed the door.



She was right, of course. He lit another cigarette and
opened the new bottle of Scotch. She had cried again, he had seen that
despite the poor lighting. He doubted whether she had been asleep at
all and it was, what, 3 o'clock in the morning? He tried to focus on
the clock. Damn the drink to hell. Who cared what time it was. He
picked up the pen and stared at the paper in front of him.



My dear Sarah. He stopped. Did he really have the right to
call her that? He tried to concentrate but his thoughts kept jumping
around. She had been the most wonderful daughter and he had been so
proud of her. She had been so beautiful, intelligent and caring. He
remembered the times they had sat on the porch together, laughing,
telling each other about their day. Almost immediately he remembered
the last evening. The way she had looked at him, the hatred in her
eyes, the brief moment when he had wanted to slap her for the first
time ever - how glad he was now that he had not done it. Not that it
made any difference. Sarah was still dead, and it was still his fault.



Maybe if he had slapped her, she would have stayed home that
night. If he had been more firm, if he had locked her in her room, she
would have been tucked up in bed by the time he came home from Paul's.
But he had let her turn around and walk back into the house, not
checking if she really did go to her room to study, not bothering to
explain why he did not give her permission to go to the party that
night. He had also turned around, got into the car and driven to
Paul's.


His head fell onto the desk. He did not feel like writing a
letter to his daughter any more, or to his wife, explaining how he had
felt that night when he got home and found that his daughter had
disobeyed him. How he had waited up for her with a bottle of Scotch in
his hand and had finally heard her key in the door long after midnight,
how he had confronted her when she had crept upstairs trying to be
quiet, trying not to wake him. He did not want to explain that it had
not been an accident. She had not simply tripped and fallen down the
stairs. He had raised his hand, for the first time, the only time in
his daughter's life and she had flinched back, forgetting that she was
still standing on the top step. The look of horror had replaced the
hatred for him in her eyes as she realized she was falling, and her
hand had reached for his as he tried to get hold of her, but he had
been too drunk and it had been too late. He saw her fall down the
stairs and knew from the way her twisted body came to lie at the bottom
that she was dead.


People told him it had been an accident, a horrible, tragic
accident. Everybody knew how much he had loved his daughter. She had
tripped and fallen, even his wife was sure of that. Nobody knew what
had happened in the final moments of her life. Nobody knew that her
death was his fault.


He raised his head and opened the desk drawer again. The dim
light fell onto the polished black gun. He looked at it for a long
time. Finally he turned away and wrote the letter he had been trying to
write for hours. Then he picked up the gun.