No Shame
Soft fur between my blood-stained fingers. This mutt always seems to be around in moments like these, gazing at me as if he sees right into my naked soul. Reality soaks in with soft moans from behind the front door and I find myself dialling 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I think I went too far this time,”
“Sir, I have your location as 17 Dove Lane, Sandringham. What emergency service do you require?”
The stillness of the night overcame me and it felt as if days had passed before I could answer.
“She needs a paramedic… She has lost a lot of blood and she needs a paramedic NOW!”
“Sir, what’s…”
I couldn’t continue with the call. I knew I couldn’t afford to be arrested, not again. So just like that, I was out of there and with a quick cab ride, I was in my own heaven. Aaaah! Niki! Those legs, the way she wears that apron. Yes, there definitely is something about her.
Jack, Jameson, Captain Morgan, Brandy. Talk about a love-hate relationship.
Amanda never did quite take to alcohol. She was always all about singing in the church choir or that stupid prayer group. I guess it is true what they say about opposites attracting. That can be the only explanation for her marrying my sorry, lame butt. All the Jack in the world couldn’t make me stop wondering if the medics had gotten to her yet. Although they were usually pretty fast to respond to incidents at 17 Dove Lane, Sandringham.
I would spend the next 3 days in places in which no good thing could ever happen. Five, eight, eleven and then fifteen missed calls. On the screen of my phone it read “15 missed calls: Amanda (Wife)”, but no amount of alcohol could give me the courage to hear her voice. That sweet, angelic voice that first caught my ear. Or could she be calling to tell me she has finally had enough? The thought alone sends me straight back to the place where Niki is. Aaaah! Niki! Those legs, the way she wears that apron. Yes, there definitely is something about her.
She has small hands just like Amanda, and the same scent that lingers long after she has left to serve another drunken fool. I find myself longing to have her, just like I once did my wife. She reminds me so much of her. I wonder what her voice sounds like. Eight years of coming to No Shame Bar, sometimes not leaving for days (that’s just how familiar I had become with this place) and I have never heard her voice. I have to get her to say something to me; my drunken impulses boil up within. Perhaps she too has a sweet angelic voice just like my Amanda.
It is days like today that I struggle to keep in touch with reality. Some call it binge drinking, others call it a drinking spree, but I call it reality.
Reality. I can still hear his voice echoing in my ear “You need to face reality, my dear son, you need to face reality.” And just like that, I am back to exactly where it all began. My name is Peter Withers Jnr, born on February 15 1967 to Peter Withers Snr and Mary Withers and this is my story…
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Tell us: What do you think Peter did?