bottom of the bottle

Passed out on the couch in his housecoat Steven now believes salvation is somewhere inside of a bottle. The grip on the bottle shows his love for vodka is gaining on his love for Carol. He tries to picture her face but the effort hurts. Steven finally loses hope in his afternoon knap and opens his eyes, grasps Carols picture and feels the lump in his throat swell again. His eyes well up and he rips the picture into quarters leaving them in his overflowing ashtray.

Leaving her new flat, Carol can feel butterflies in her stomach. She decided a little over a week ago Steven was going nowhere and they needed a break. He did not take it as well as she hoped; his tears wore her down until she had no choice but to walk away. She has only seen him once more and that was to pick up her stuff, which he had packed neatly in three suitcases and a pile of boxes. Running through those memories Carol had not realised she had started crying, she pulls over and tries to calm herself down.

After a lengthy struggle Steven finally manages to sit upright for the first time in about twenty hours. He decides he can go another twelve hours before emptying his piss bucket and cleaning the floor of papers, cardboard and God knows what else. Satisfied with his decision he finds somewhere to scratch, yawns and lays back looking for that obscure comfy spot on the cushion. He remembers that it is easier to find blind drunk so he grabs up what is left of his vodka and goes to work. He knows he is ok to down the lot; there is another two bottles behind the empty pizza box. Picking the remote from under his pillow he switches on the TV and settles down for another night alone.

Since the morning after Carol initiated the break, she has not stopped thinking about Stevens’ last suicide attempt and how depressed he can get. She is not worried about him though, he has made a lot of progress with Dr Thornhill. In some ways she is glad he has stopped his anti-depressants but he seems to have swapped them for vodka. Before she left he was drinking a litre bottle a day, she cringes to think what he drinks now.

Watching the same crap over and over is starting to drive Steven crazy, out of his lengthy DVD collection he has only two left to watch. Neither option appeals to him, one was a porno his friend forced on him. The other is Carol’s favourite film, Pretty Woman; he would rather swallow those sleeping pills he has been staring at all week. From his limited options he chooses ‘barely 18’ and struggles to carry himself to the DVD player. After a lot of cursing and mumbling the film plays and he finds solace back on the couch. He finishes off his breakfast, another pint of vodka. The pint glass falls from his hand as he blacks out and falls back to his pillow.

She could not loosen her grip on the wheel, her eyes where set to her old front door. A million different ways to ask Steven to end this break, but she struggled to find the right one. Letting go of the wheel as well as her nerves she decides to take a leaf out of his book and wing it. Striding confidently toward the house she is sure he will accept her with open arms and everything will get better. This illusion is stripped away from her as soon as the front door opens. The rancid perfume grew stronger the closer she drew toward the living room. Hearing the orgasmic moans of a women Carol is temporarily set back, confused she slowly peaks her head around the door and realises it is the television. In disgust she bursts open the door ready to tear him apart, instead she finds herself covering her mouth with both hands to stifle her scream. Her eyes dart from the sleeping tablets to the vodka and back to Steven; she picks up the near empty bottle of vodka and pours the remains over his corpse, hoping this last drink will make him happy. Crying uncontrollably she stumbles through the filth ridden floor, dropping and smashing the now empty bottle.

Somewhere in the distance Steven hears a smash and begins to come around. Struggling to open his eyes or even lift his head he hears another sound, the slamming of his front door. How did he know it was his front door? Probably because of that stupid antique door knocker she put on it. Sitting up now he directs his blurry vision to the bay window, he sees what could be Carol getting in her car. Through much deliberation he decides it could not have been Carol, if she came in here now she would have a fit and end up hitting him again. Enough is enough, he stands bolt upright sending his head into a spin. He goes into the kitchen and gets a bin bag and starts straightening the room, stopping every now and then to watch the porno that is still playing.

A few pizza boxes and empty bottles later and he is half way through cleaning, he decides to sit down and have a smoke. He takes out his Zippo from his house coat and strikes it on his thigh, instantly igniting his vodka soaked bottoms. Unable to process what was happening he watches the near clear blue flames ripple like mercury across his hips and up his chest. The flames reach delicate parts and the situation becomes all too real for him, he tries to stand whilst franticly patting the flames. Landing his right foot on a dirty dish hidden by a tea towel he spins and falls. Lightning pain bolts through his chest as he crushes two bottles of vodka on the floor, impaling him with glass and sending a tidal wave of fire throughout the room. All hope and effort gone from him, he stares into the ashtray at the quartered Carol and decides his last wish is for Carol to find someone better than himself and be happy.