You came home drunk again tonight. I know, I saw you passed out on the couch, like always. This is the seventh time this week, the thirtieth time this month, and the three hundredth thirty-fourth time this year. Yes, I've kept count.
Tomorrow is December first. Bet you didn't know that. You never know the date, and you always forget the important ones. Such as the school play I starred in. You missed. You asked me about it yesterday, but you didn't know it had been last week.
To think I used to look up to you. To think I used to think you were the greatest. Well, look at you now, lying on the couch out cold with a beer bottle in your hand. And as I kneel to look at you, your foul, stale breath blows across my face every time you exhale. I still hold hope, however, even after all this time. I hope that with the cold weather will come the relief of your habit, though I know it won't happen.
You're addicted. I can't help but ask myself, what pushed you to this? Was it me? What can I do to change it, to make it better? Is there anything I can do? Can we go back to the way we used to be? Will we ever live like that again? Will you ever break this vicious cycle?
As I stand to my feet to return to bed, I bend down to gently kiss you on the forehead, like you used to do to me, the only affection I can show towards you now, and only while you sleep.
"Goodnight, Joey," I murmur as I head into the lonely dark void that led to sleep.