The cold sweat on the edge of his neck, a short simmer off looseness in his eyes as he faces himself in the mirror. He shakes. Not like a leaf, but like someone that´s been in cold water for too long.
It´s just a dream, a nightmare.
Manny is dead.
Mom is dead.
It´s over.
The war is over.
He steps into the shower, clothes on and everything, the water is temperatured, but quickly turns warmer as he turns up the heat, his wife beater sticks to his torso and the cotton boxers he wears are drooping off his body.
Breathing heavily he pushes his hands into the wall of the shower, the tiles are wet, but his fingers still grip onto the edges of the tiles as he tries to close his eyes, trying to remember a reason to hold onto reality.
Her.
The soft blonde hair falling down her shoulders, big brow eyes looking at him and smiling, chuckling as he looks at her. The fall of her skirt, the innocent look in her eyes when he´s inside of her, the warmth of her body pressed against his. The smell of peaches flair his nostrals and its like he´s back home in Pittsbourgh again, waiting outside of her diner for her to come home with him.
They are sixteen.
He punches the tiles of the shower with his fist, making the skin on his knuckles split and bleed.
Where the fuck was she now?
Probably married, pregnant, living in a house with a picket fence and a normal husband.
Normal!
He could have been normal for her. He wanted to be normal for her, he wanted to be good and safe and give her the life she deserved. Too bad he ran before he even got to say goodbye.
She was better off.
Stepping out of the shower he looks himself in the mirror again, its like a faint ghost looking back at him, his grey eyes are hooded, tired and sleep deprived. He strips down, leaving his wife beater and boxers in a wet pile right next to the shower. His hand bleeds as he takes it under the water of the sink, making the porcilain of it turn a bright red then pink. The cut is minor, he´ll survive.
Fuck he´ll survive.
That´s not even what he wants.
Walking back into the bedroom he knows the remedy for the pain, he didnt even understand why he bothered to stop in the first place.
A bottle of Jack Daniels stationed on his nightstand, he twists the cap with his bruised hand, biting his jaw from the pain coming from the knuckles. Puts the mouth of the bottle to his lips, taking a powerful sip that burns down his throat and takes the sting off everything.
The world disapears, his body feels limp as he falls back on the bed, he doesnt think anymore, doesnt need to, he´s found his poison.