But, the knock at the door returned.

The unknown visitor, relentlessly, beat at that door. Still, by no means, was he willing to get up to answer it. The beating would continue throughout the night — in his dreams. In the smolder of his chain smoking when the eyes wouldn’t stay shut. A single knock, from a possible friend, came and went on the August morning, yet, there he sat, completely disgusted with himself. Extremely uncomfortable.

Days, nights, weeks were passing. With it, the thoughts would submit the banter. The middle-aged man had lost all of his friends when the Rum had stopped doing its job — back when it became nothing more that a diuretic, without the fix. Back when alcohol-fueled good times evolved into little more than a staring contest.

“What–who– am I now?” That was the question. It was the question that would knock at all hours of the day. The inquisition beat just as clear as the pulse in his head, every dreadful day.