AJ

Some people count sheep. I count booze.

Gin, tequila, vermouth -- both dry and sweet, bourbon, vodka... Ah, vodka. Nectar of the gods. Smells crisp as air, goes down like fire. My drink of choice. Sometimes, when I lie here, sleepless, I swear to god I can taste it.

Knowing I can't, ever again, is almost enough to make me take a drink.

I know a lot of things that no one realizes I'm aware of. Numero uno on that list -- I know what kind of man I am. I see myself pretty clearly. Why do you think I drink?

Wait. Stop. That's a lie. And, whatever else I am, I'm not a man who tells lies to himself in the dark. I drink because I'm a drunk. A weak man who's never gonna be able to stop after just one.

I can hear her breathing in the next room. Soft and even. It sounds so--

Red wine, white. Schnapps, scotch, champagne... Here's another thing I know. This stopped being about my son a long time ago. I love him. I love him with a depth I didn't know I had until the first time I felt his sweet weight in my arms. But, this path I'm on -- he's not the destination that waits at the end of it.

Revenge. Cold, spare, and sweet. I have a feeling it might taste like vodka going down. That's why I'm in this game; that's why I do do these things. I don't ever want to have to choose between my son and it's pursuit. I don't want to know what I'd choose.

I got a taste of sweet vengeance when she chose me over him. She'd heard both stories; she had a choice. And, she placed her hand in mine, turned her eyes on me. They were full of trust, Courtney's eyes, full of--

Brady, rum, sherry, beer. Creme de menthe. Creme de anything. I tell myself I'd chose him. That I'd rather have Micheal in my life than the people who call themselves his parents out of it. But then I look at myself, how far I've gone, what I've done. And, I have to admit that I don't know anymore. If someone came up to me, said 'you can have him back if you just let Sonny and Carly go. Let them live free and happy, and Micheal's yours'. I don't know if I could walk away.

She lay her hand on my cheek when she told me goodnight. I can still feel it lingering there. For just a moment, I was tempted to grab the lifeline she was tossing me, all unknowing, and hold on. To kneel at her feet and let her be my salvation. To be the man she sees when she looks at me, the one who loves his child more than he wants her brother dead.

The moment passed. It always does. And, instead, I lie here and count booze. Whisky, sake, rye...