Can't Spill a Drop

He stumbled through the door, catching his foot on the door jamb. Small drops of his life's blood rand down the edge of the glass and wove intimately through his fingers. With a slight gasp he bent his tired head to hand and licked the liquid clean. Can't spill a drop, can't spill a drop. It had been days since he'd felt right, sane, collected.
         Jerkily he looked around for... something. His eyes kept being drawn back to the glass clutched in his grimy digits. Magnetism, that's what it felt like. The urge to slake his thirst was a terrible presence in the back of his mind... It pushed. But no, he had to stretch it. He had to stretch it as long as possible. He wrenched his eyes away and found what he was looking for, an overturned bin on the broken concrete. A shaft of orange light lit it as though blessed.
         He dropped to his knees;matted, knotted hair trailing over his face, obscuring his view. Refusing to let the glass pine over the loss of his touch he brushed the hair back. He felt it drag through the liquid and quickly tongued the hair into his mouth. Can't spill a drop, can't spill a drop he mumbled to himself around the bristly fibers. He rummaged through the bin, searching, searching.
         Newspapers, soured drink cups, wrappers of every kind crinkled and shifted past his questing fingers. Nowhere to be found, nowhere. In his distress he began whimpering. Tears formed at the corners of his wrinkled sunken eyes. He couldn't believe it, the one item you could always count on... but wait. There it was, a pop bottle! And it even had the cap on it. He sent up a ululation as he grasped it and crawled back out of the can. Grinning he held up his prize to the bar tender that had just forced him out.
         He cut his celebration short. He could feel the glass' pull and wanted it safely tucked away in his new container. Where prying eyes could not see it and sneaky fingers could not steal it.
         He unscrewed the cap and was assaulted by a sour smell from the depths of the bottle. He lifted it, trying to see into it. He saw the bar tender tense as he shuffled closer to the door to see into it.
         A slightly thick brown liquid swirled in the bottom of the bottle, shot through with the dark specks. He couldn't believe his luck! Nicotine and alcohol all in the same night. Giddy, he unscrewed the top of the bottle and started to pour his scotch into the mouth. His tongue flitted out to mop up the rivulets running down the sides as he poured. Upending the glass he shook the last few drops into the bottle and then, giggling to himself, he licked the sides of the glass, a lover pleasuring his woman.
         Tightening the cap and secreting the bottle underneath his torn and blood stained jacket, he turned back to the bar tender. He stared at the barkeep for a minute, fighting gravity, feeling it tug him to the left and then the right.
         "Dija wan thish back then?" he slurred holding up the glass. He moistened his dry, cracked lips and grinned black toothed.
         "Disgusting..." the barkeep responded and turned to head back inside.
         Laughing, the old man pulled his arm back and hurled the glass at the door the barkeep had just closed. The glass struck the door just below the window and shattered into a glittering cloud of sharp fragments behind him as he stumbled down the sidewalk, one foot in the gutter.
         Reaching into his pocket he grasped his bottle and unscrewed the cap. Tilting his head back, he gulped down some of the fire and felt it drip down into his empty stomach.
         He stumbled onwards looking for shelter, his feet ached with the cold where his shoes were worn through. He held his thin coat closed, alternating hands when the one outside of his pocket started to go numb from the slicing wind. He watched a couple shuffle into an apartment building on the other side of the street and felt a pang of longing in his heart for his previous life.
         His life before he slept under bridges and hunted for morsels in trash bins. Tears leaked from his eyes as he thought of her and his kids. He wondered what they were doing. How he wanted to see them...
         Ripping his coat open he grasped for the bottle and his destroyed nails scrabbled for purchase on the cap. Finally getting it open he tilted his head back and drained the bottle. He sobbed as he slumped to the ground next to one of the trees that lined the avenue.
         "I'm sorry Samantha," he sobbed. He lifted the bottle one last time to his lips and emptied the remaining sludge in the bottom onto his awaiting pallet."I'm sorry, I couldn't stop for you."
         He felt sleep tugging at his eyes and allowed himself to fall down into that darkness.

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         "He's been dead twelve hours," the coroner explained to the officer. "I can't say for certain yet what the cause but I'm willing to bet it's a stomach full of used motor oil mixed with scotch. I didn't find any ID on the body either did your guys?"
         Sighing the officer said,"No, but it's not like it matters. Who the fuck cares about a homeless that killed himself?"