The air was sticky and hot on that strange October day. That day when Artie's wheels seemed to take a little longer to begin to move and when the floor seemed like it was holding everyone back from moving. It was like the world wanted everyone to stop and look back; to stare at all the damage and commotion the people had been causing but refused to fix or help calm down. The world wanted everyone to realize what they had been doing to each other, ripping their skin off bit by bit and making them analyze every inch of themselves that was widely accepted as wrong.

The vodka was too warm for Artie's disgusted mouth, the cheap buzz he was expecting off of it almost not worth drinking for. That bit of healing he wanted to feel wasn't going to come quick enough, no matter how hard he sat there with his eyes closed and focusing after each shot. He wanted the alcohol to seep into his system and take him away from the cruelty of his stupid desk job and his horrible, lonely life. The dreams he wanted to breathe life into were lying broken in a box that Artie continued to keep in the shabby apartment he hated so much. That stupid box full of sheet music and busted guitar strings and those stupid yellow gloves that were dirty and tattered. He thought he was tricky after he read "Of Mice and Men," keeping one of those stupid gloves coated with a bit of Vaseline for that beautiful, misunderstood goth girl that he always knew wouldn't love him forever.

She did, however, enjoy the tender touch of his palm. That just wasn't enough to keep her.

The drinking wasn't sprouting from this stupid high school memory of the girl he knew he wouldn't grow old with. The drinking was a child of the dreams crushed under his limp, useless feet of ever doing something he loved with his life. He thought he would make it. He thought he would be making money and rolling in happiness.

No.

He's working full time at a call center in Lima, still having to work at a fast food restaurant he worked at as a teenager to make ends meet. Even with both of those jobs, he can't even have a decent apartment where you can't hear the creaky sounds of the couple having sex upstairs and the faucet dripping two rooms over.

The only sound Artie can hear then are his wheels crawling across the dirty floor over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out another bottle for him to down.

Each shot was for another time he thought he would make it.

When he was a kid, just days before he was slammed into the rolling chair he would spend the rest of his life in. He thought he would become a famous dancer. Joke's on him.

Freshman year, when he truly believed that these would be the best years of his life. What a joke. Being hoisted up by your underwear on to a flagpole sure makes the best years of your life.

Junior year, when he finally lost his virginity to a girl that didn't even want it. To this day, a stick of that Lip Smackers still sits in that box across the room, along with a pair of ripped lacy fishnets.

Senior year, when everyone was going off to college. Who would have known that the valedictorian of the class would end up flunking out of college due to panic attacks and skipping classes to go drink to drown the pain?

That takes us back to now, the last shot of the bottle trickling through Artie's lips.

He was all too aware of the people plunging their toilet upstairs.

The one sound he heard after that was his drunken hands pulling the weapon he had kept concealed in a box for the right date, along with his emergency bottle of alcohol (like he needed it now) and the short note he had written for anyone that would pick it up. He knew that no one would pick it up as he fondled the trigger with his fingers, remembering his parents telling him to never come back when he stole money to make sure he'd keep his apartment.

They'd never have to worry about him coming back.