Proverbs 26:11 - Sicut canis qui revertitur ad vomitum suum sic inprudens qui iterat stultitiam suam - As a dog returns to its vomit, so fools repeat their folly.

"Well, I'm buggered now. " He falls to the floor, landing with a commotion loud enough to wake all of Lincolnshire.

"Cyril?"

"Gwennie, just a little trip. Don't bother yourself."

"Cyril, you've been gone all hours. It's past 1:00. What's happened?"

Gwen enters the parlor where her husband is lying on the carpet, pissed out of his mind. Her look pierces his ale induced armor as he struggles to dig himself out of the impending hell-storm.

"Nothing, nothing at all. Just lost my footing."

Gwen pauses, taking in the blood on his forehead. "From the pot to the pisshole, more like it." It is then, as she looks Cyril, that she realizes it is much worse than she could have imagined. Her mind processes quickly what she sees. There is blood down his face, black & blues rising near his left eye, torn clothes, vomit. The track. The pub. Our money.

"A promise, that's what you made me. A promise! Now, look at the sight of you. You should look at yourself!" Gwen spouts through anger, masking her fear.

"Oh, Pet, no need for worry," he slurs, "I'll just take myself off to the looooo."

"You're bloody bleedin'! What've ya done?"

"Nothing. Just a bump. Nothing."

"What's that god awful smell?" She walks toward him and realization dawns through the lump of her husband's delusional thoughts.

"Just a bit of sick, that's all." His mind is clearing, and it tells him he should keep quiet, but the ale gives him Dutch courage to continue. "I'll be right as rain by the morning." He tries to lift himself off the floor, but the 10 stone he's added since his last drink six months ago, holds him down.

"Just look atcha." Gwen bends to look in his eyes, and the obvious question follows. "How'd you get home?"

"Well, that's a bit of a story. Too long to tell."

Gwen crosses the room, pulls the curtain back to see an empty spot where the handsome cab usually sits.

"Oh my God." She says, her fear and anxiety rising through the tone of her voice. "Where is it? Where is it? Tell me NOW!"

Cyril leans on an elbow, pushes himself half way up, then waits for his head to stop spinning and pulsing, before using both hands to shove his body upright to lean against the sofa. Gwen looks at him and the complete picture of the mess overwhelms her. She falls more than sits on the sofa above him.

"What are we to do?"

Cyril closes his eyes struggling to right his whirling brain to speak clearly. He only improves slightly, with a telltale slur still haunting his words.

"Nothing, I'll just clean up, and we'll sleep on it."

Gwen looks at him incredulously.

"Sleep on it? Who's going to sleep? You?"

Cyril looks at Gwen, trying to look apologetic but actually looking sheepish and childish. Gwen looks back at him and her direct sobriety is offensive and terrifying to him.

"Well?"

"The cab is at the station. Nothing damaged, they said, just my thick head. Rode back here in a blue and white. No charges, they said. Everything is fine. No judge or jury." Cyril winces and wishes he hadn't added that last part, because Gwen is the court of appeals.

"Last Time. The last. If your foolishness destroys us, you are gone. Joyce stays with me."

"Gwennie, Gwennie, I won't. Not a sip. You can see, with all that's happened, the boy coming to stay, and you not wanting him and me letting you down, well, I had to."

"What? What, what, what? Say it again you blighter. Go on. Go ON! Say it AGAIN!"

At this Cyril breaks down, sobbing, blood making new paths down his face. Pitiful paths.

"Don't, Gwennie. Don't. This time. This one. I'll do anything. Anything. Anything. What do you want? I'll give it to you."

"Want? Want? You're bollocks. You tell me, you bastard. You tell me what you are going to do! Tell me now, or you are GONE!

"Not drink."

"Say it again. Say it again, Say it again, you bastard!"

"Not drink. Ever. Ever, ever, ever."

Gwen interrupts him. "Ever. Enough. Ever. I'd laugh if there was anything funny to laugh about."

Gwen and Cyril look at each other. Pity and pitiful. What else is there? They are here. Nothing can be done now, at this moment.

"You life ruining bastard. Come with me. Let's get you cleaned up."

They walk to the kitchen, Cyril's head hanging, Gwen's lifted high enough to hold both of them up. Again.