It's not everyday someone a drunk man sits by you and begins to tell you "the truth." He sat by me in the bar as I stared absentmindedly at the table, trying to feel the whiskey working in my insides. I blinked as I could feel his eyes boring down on me, turning to him.
"Can I help you?" I asked curtly, thinking he was just a regular, drunk creep wanting a pretty girl to go home with him, but his eyes told something different. Like a lost, sad puppy needing something. He closed them, breathing out, the scent of alcohol all over his breath.
"You look like someone I could trust," He began slowly. I didn't reply, which he assumed was his cue to go on. "I'm the guilty kind of drunk, to tell ya the truth," he chuckled nervously, shrugging. "But I have to tell someone, get it off of my chest…" He was breathing very ragged, and he was wringing his hands together, but then he abruptly started to tell his story in a rush, his words tumbling out.
"I killed a man a month ago. I killed him. I killed my friend. He was trying to save me, trying to keep me out of danger – but he committed suicide because of it – because of me. I killed a man. He told me he was a fake, but I knew he was lying – oh, God he was lying, wasn't he? I'm going crazy. But the truth is I've killed a man, and I'm going to Hell because it's my entire fault and I just I – I'm done with it all I killed him – I've killed my best friend."
I began to shush him as he started to look upset, like he was about to burst out in tears. He was sweating and close to hyperventilation. "Okay, okay, calm down. It's not your fault. Breathe…" He breathed as I kept my hands on his shoulders. "What was his name?"
The man swallowed another swig of beer, still shaking and trying to control his breathing, still the look of distraught on his face. "Sherlock Holmes."