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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Death · #2118572
Feeling loss and alcohol abuse. (Words: 615)
The Street

He was laying in the gutter, in the horrid stench, of his own vomit.
With a weakened arm, he reached into his breast pocket and slowly, he pulled out a small Bible.
He wanted to read from it but, his vision was blurred, from unheard tears.

His throat, dry as sandpaper.

“Forgive me Lord, for I am a sinner. “ He uttered through dried out lips.

He was alone on the street, and even whilst covered in his own fluids, he felt oddly comfortable: Because he knew, that she’d never see…

He couldn't even finish, the trail of thought.

Quickly, he took a shot of whiskey, to calm his own suffering. With sigh, deep enough to quake his own heart, he got up on insecure feet.

It was about time, to get moving.

The moon carelessly, threw its light on his cadaver, as his journey began.

He sang loudly, old songs from when he had been, just a little boy.
Now, age was catching up. Wrinkles covered his sunburned face. Under his eyes, his skin hung like used rice sacks. His scruffy, gray beard had, with time, grown its own will.

He sang even louder.

Death didn't frighten him anymore, if anything, he welcomed it. He had nothing left, but that bloody old house…

For a brief moment he stopped up, and yelled at his inner demons.

The pain in his chest grew, as he wrapped his hand around one, lonely key in his pocket. The one key that existed for his front door, her childhood home.

Such a sad place it had become: All furniture, hidden beneath blankets and sheets.
The kitchen, oh… the mess, a nuclear detonation couldn't compare with.

She used to do the cleaning.

It is not so, that the man was lazy, but he completely lacked the drive.
The house, that had been their dream home, had deteriorated into a mixture of a cemetery and a prison.

He found a cold cup of coffee on the kitchen table, and filled it, half and half with whiskey, just to drown out the taste of old coffee again.
Then he walked into the living room, but before he even had the chance to realize it, he was already in memories’ cruel torment once more.


Always about her.

Never a second did his heart leave hers. Never a moment of doubt, even when he’d be to drunk too stand, he knew, he could never love again.

But she passed away 5 years, and 1 day ago.

And he hadn't had a sober moment since.

Family and friends, well, he was too old, too drunk, and too moody, to deal with them, and the feeling was mutual.

He had been rejecting their help, back to a sober life, for much too long.

And without his darling wife, Helena…

He collapsed into his chair next to the couch, where she’d knit, as she did the day, before the accident.

He closed his eyes and shivered in emotional agony.

The coffee mug, fell to the floor and exploded into a thousand pieces, just as his heart.

The accident…

Had been his fault.

“Are you sure?”

Drunk, and confident.

He was sure. Of course he could drive, as he had done before, and it hadn't been that far either.

“Helena… “

He could never forgive his confidence, but he were also, too weak, to let go of it.

And for that, the other driver, and his family had been laid to waste.

Helena his loving wife, died in his arms, on the street.

Forgiveness was not an option, nor Life or Death.

There existed only Helena, on the street, just down the block.

P. K Jørgensen

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