I don't own anything except the storyline, which is completely fictional.

I always make New Year's resolutions.

For example, last year I vowed that I would stop drinking, and that I would love you no matter how much my sentiments disagreed.

But, as per every year previously, it is evident my objectives have failed as here I sit, a whole year later, a bottle of whisky balancing between my fingertips and a fresh arrangement of purple bruises beginning to seep up to the surface of your skin.

I can't change my ways.

I can't give up drinking because I love the way the toxins corrode my throat, my mind, my heart. I can't love you because the drinking has changed me into a man I'm too disturbed to run away from.

Yet, it makes me feel so sick.

It makes me sick because it shows me how sick I really am.

I'm sick because I love how after every blow you run back to my side like a puppy dog- no matter how much you are abused, beaten, mistreated, you will always have an undeniable love for your master.

I don't feel like a master. I feel like a tyrant.

And tonight is a perfect example of this- your head rests upon my lap as your wounds fester and gradually heal, yet another one of my sordid addictions. I can't help but venerate the way your hair falls over your swollen eyes, or how with every sleeping breath you whimper slightly; you're terrified of me, yet you run to me for protection.

But I know deep down that I will never protect you, no matter how much I try.

I will never protect you because I will never be able to love.

Not any more, at least.

So, as the hand of my watch flicks to the twelve, detonating a display of colour and fire and joy and celebration for the rest of the world, I make a New Year's resolution.

Just one.

It's one I've never made before.

I promise, Frank, that I will never love you, so I will never hurt you or scare you again.

Because you will never see me again.

I kiss you gently on the brow, brushing the greasy threads of hair from your face, careful not to stir you from your slumber. I'll miss the way you murmur as my hand makes contact with your skin and the way I your eyes search for me beneath their lids, even in the depths of coma. I'll miss these little things a lot, but I know this is for the best.

Before I leave your house, I do one thing- I write a note. Three words are scribbled on a sticky pad and stuck to your refrigerator.

"Happy New Year."