He opened his locker and stripped off his work shirt, hanging it carefully inside. Ignoring the hyped up chatter of shift change all around him, he hurried through getting dressed. Quickly, he checked his watch. 7:04 - I've got just enough time. As he slipped a t-shirt over his head, his stomach rolled. Nope. No punking out. It's time to face this head on. Reaching into his locker, he grabbed his jacket and walked out into the cold night air.

Walking the five blocks to Trinity Baptist Church, he barely registered the swarms of people jostling him, bar hopping or rushing to their dinner reservations. After the first two blocks, the lights and noise of nightlife were behind him and the refreshing smells of grass and fireplaces from the surrounding neighborhoods calmed him. He opened the side entrance to the church and followed the sign to the small dining hall to be greeted by the smell of coffee and low voices in conversation.

"Hey, uh everybody…my name's James and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi James," they chorused back.

"I am 67 days sober today."

A smattering of applause echoed in the small room.

He gave an embarrassed smile and fidgeted with his jacket. "Thanks."

Clearing his throat, he looked around at the people who had been with him on this journey for the last 90 days. They had encouraged him every time he slipped up. Every time he drank to forget or because the memories were too much, they reminded him that it wasn't failure unless he stopped trying. They listened. He trusted them.

"I had something I wanted to share…" He was starting to sweat. Wiping his forehead, he muttered, "Sorry."

"Take your time," somebody said from the left side of the circle.

He smiled awkwardly, "Thanks." He took a deep breath, "I had a friend…named Breece back home. Uh…there was a lot going on in our town then…" James faltered, shaking his head, "No…sorry, that doesn't matter."

Taking a deep breath, he started again, "Look…we were idiots…drunk, stupid idiots. I mean, not Breece! Me an' a couple other guys…We—we tried to set a woman's house on fire…on purpose. There were a lot of problems between our town and her… well, her whole family really but…I don't know why we thought doing that would help things but we did it– like monsters." He kept his eyes down, not wanting to see the looks on their faces. "Alcohol can't excuse it…we were monsters. I mean, who does that? Breece came to stop it…to stop us. We were too hopped up to listen to him. And he stayed behind while we ran away, to…to try to put out the fire we started…The family of the woman who lived in that house, they grabbed him and they killed him for it. They shot him in the head for something we did. Because of us, he's dead...no – because of me."

He clutched his pant legs with both hands, needing the strength to power through it all, leaving nothing out.

"They would have listened if I had told them not to do it. They would have gotten more drunk and more stupid, but they wouldn't have gone up there to hurt anyone. Not just the two of them…they weren't, like leaders, you know. They were followers." Saying it out loud, James felt sick. "My friend is dead and I can't change any of it, you know what I'm sayin'? His wife lost her husband…his girls lost their father…his parents lost their son, 'cause of one stupid, stupid decision! Those other people may have pulled the trigger but, but it was our fault. He was only there because of us."

"I-I wrote her a letter…to his wife, I mean. I haven't mailed it yet. I don't know if I should or - damn…I don't know what I'm thinking. I mean, she don't owe me a fucking response or anything, right? It just feels like she deserves to know he was doing a good thing…he was a good guy. He was a really good guy. How do I ever make up for that?" He ran out of steam, his whole body seemed to deflate, "How could I ever make amends for that."

His mind was racing through the things he wasn't saying. The things he did that scared him. In his mind's eye, he could see the fear in Sally Ann's eyes when he grabbed her, when he screamed at her. He could see that boy Hasil's face, smashed - his body, tied to the chair. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images stayed. They were always there.

James raised his eyes from staring at the floor slowly, afraid to look around the room, as if they could all see the slideshow in his head. "That's it, I guess. Thanks for listening."

A hand squeezed his shoulder, meaning to comfort, but shame and guilt were the only things he could feel.

James tossed his keys on the counter and plopped his bag of Chinese food down next to them. His apartment was tiny, minuscule really - less than 500sq ft, but being in a restored building it was like a new build. He was lucky to get it. He stripped down and took a long look at himself before he got into the shower. When he stopped drinking he replaced it with working out. He'd lost all traces of the body fat that the alcohol and being unemployed had gifted him. He kept his facial hair and hairstyle shaped religiously. His barber joked that if he lost all his clients except James he'd still be able to keep the doors open. No more old shirts, no rumpled jeans - as if all the grooming in the world could somehow straighten his insides out, too.

After his shower, he stared at his reflection in the steamed up mirror. Nope. That crap in there is a completely different mess. Drying himself off, he tried to shut down his negative thoughts, telling himself… Criticism is fruitless. You have a good job and a decent place, so stop it. Go eat and go to bed. Get up tomorrow and do better.