I'm starting to forget his face.

And with each drink it gets worse.

I must've had two bottles this evening. I can smell the vodka on my own breath.

I used to hate drinking. I used to blame drink for the way my father behaved, for the way that Harry behaved. But now, it is the only medicine that can cure me.

It's the only medicine that can numb me.

It's been a year since he fell.

No, not fell.

It's been a year since he jumped.

He looked at me, he made me look at him, and he jumped.

The bastard.

I take another swig.

Straight from the bottle; I stopped using glasses months ago.

I look in the cracked mirror and see a man who I hate.

I see a man who is full of self-loathing.

A man who does nothing to resemble the person he was a year ago.

The man I see is a drunk.

He's a waste of space.

People stopped coming to see him after a few months.

Stopped coming to see him after he bolted the door shut.

My fists curl and rage pulses through me.

I turn away from him.

A swish of black catches my eye. I force my eyes to focus on it.

It can't be.

But it is.

I reach for it and feel it caress my hand.

I drag it towards me, feeling no hesitation in its movements.

I feel how real it is.

I feel my hand clasp around its neck and stroke its throat.

It touches my forehead.

I can't hold back the tears anymore.

I can't hold back the hurt.

I pull the trigger.