The Voice He Hears (Part 14)

Like any seasoned drunk, he had to have a drink. Mike cracked open the bottle of Gin he’d been sitting on since June. His agitation, along with the familiar withdrawal, was relentlessly picking.

Day turned to night, and the moon was rising above the treeline on the edge on the field behind the house. He poured the drinks quickly, and often.

Mike ordered the pizza from DeLonge’s and had them leave it outside. Mike’s reputation as being the drunk on Merkel St was well known at the pizzeria. So many times, the money had been left inside the grill on the patio in exchange for the pies. Mike gorged himself with slice after slice, chasing it all down with his mix.

The moon was especially bright that evening, and Mike was becoming extraordinarily soused in its company. Nearing the end of his Gin and Coke party, he hung his head towards his chest. He began to think, in his obscurity…

Is it all from God? Am I the one who guides, or is the guy upstairs the one? Do I even give a shit? Where’s dad–in a shallow grave down the street? In heaven? In the presence of, “Jehovah”? Is he…was.. really what those delusional “Witnesses”…whatever…ha, ha, ha …

In hell, I hope…

He was falling asleep in the chair. Mike managed to bring himself to the floor, resting his head in the makeshift pillow of wadded clothes.

The dream began.



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