He grasps the neck of the bottle by his fingertips. He considers just letting go and watch it drop and chatter into a million little pieces on the floor. It would be lovely entertainment watching it break but the mere thought of having to rummage for the fucking broom makes him chase the thought away. He brings the bottle to his lips and drinks for a few seconds before he puts the bottle down. He watches it dangle from his fingertips. Life is like this bottle. Life fucks you up and then before you least expect it; it drops you and lets you chatter into a million little pieces. Except Life doesn't get the broom out and sweep you up.
Or perhaps, this only applies to him. There was nothing left of Jackson to sweep up. He was incinerated. Jackson probably didn't feel a thing and since he was always so fuckin' religious, he's probably having a swell time up in heaven right now, laughing at his misery.
He drinks from the bottle again but this time he sets it on the table in front of him. Glancing out the window, he can see downtown New York, where the scum of the Earth reveal their true identities within the safety of the night. This is where he, Richard Reiben, belongs. Here in New York, drinking his life away, hoping maybe one day his liver will stop working and he can finally fucking die.
He snatches the bottle off the table and drinks the remaining liquid in the bottle and slams down the bottle once and for all. He staggers to his miserable living room and collapses on the thing he likes to call a sofa. Wade didn't have to drink or be an alcoholic for his liver to fail. Nope, all he had to do was play the hero and try to save as many souls as he could. He's probably laughing it up there with Jackson as well, snickering at his misery. Maybe he should've played the hero. Maybe he should've signed up to be a fucking medic instead so he could carry some lovely Morphine instead of a BAR. Fucking prick.
How many years has it been since the war ended? Two? Three? No, it has to be at least four. Where is the goddamn newspaper when you need it? He sits up and looks out across the tiny apartment. No newspaper in sight. Stupid newspaper. Don't need it anyway. He could figure this out himself. Like Captain Miller. Miller always knew what to do. Well, most of the time. If Miller had decided not to take out the machine gun, Wade might have still been here instead of being in Jackson's lovely company. Wade might have been here this precise moment telling him how being an alcoholic could cause his liver to fail and to get his ass off the couch. But as it turns out, Wade isn't here 'cause of Captain Miller. Plus, Wade would probably be working in a doctor's office and he wouldn't have time to deal with scum like him.
It's a struggle to get off the couch (he's so fucking tired) but he needs another drink, needs another bottle to hold, he needs this constant variable in his life. He couldn't count on Lucy to stay with him (Who needed her anyway?), he couldn't count on his job (They haven't paid him yet, those assholes.), and he certainly couldn't count on Caparzo to follow orders. No, he could not. If Caparzo hadn't seen the girl, or never had a niece, hell he would bet one million fucking dollars Caparzo would be here right now, sharing a drink with him. But he wasn't able to count on him and now he gets all the drinks to himself. Yes, the bottle would never change. It would always be there for him. When he began to remember certain details, things that should be erased from his memory, there's the bottle always welcoming him into his life.
He opens the refrigerator door and grimaces when he realizes that he has run out of liquor. He slams the door to the refrigerator shut and makes his way to the sofa again. Liquor is his main tool of escape and sleep is his second. But he can't count on sleep like he can count on alcohol. Because he is vulnerable when he sleeps, and it is the point where he is the weakest and the memories of Mellish, Sarge, Jackson, Wade, and fuck, even Upham swarm into his dreams. He can't trust himself. I mean he couldn't trust Lucy, how the hell would he be able to trust himself? That's why alcohol is so fucking beautiful. Alcohol fucks you up and sweeps you right up and makes you forget. And with that last thought he lies down on his sofa again and falls asleep. But like every night after the war ended, he dreams of storming the beaches of Normandy.
A/N: My first Saving Private Ryan FanFiction. Go easy on me. The only thing I'm worried about is that I didn't keep it in the correct tense. This is all supposed to be going on Reiben's head. So, I hope you enjoyed it. Review? C: