The cycle of the Devil.

You are 41 years old . You are an Alcoholic. You come home after a long day at the local bar. You haven’t earned a cent in a decade. You live in a mediocre two bedroom house whose rent is due since a year. It’s 5 PM. Your children would be home soon. Your boy’s 12 and your daughter 11. Congratulations!

Your wife’s cooking in a cockroach infested greasy little mud house which her optimistic mind sees as a kitchen. She clanks her pots and pans around, clearly indicating that she doesn’t care. You’re annoyed now. Almost everything annoys you cause you have a pretty hot temper for someone as useless .You look for something to throw at that darned woman, but you are too lazy to move a muscle, accompanied by a spliting headache. You switch on the television , but there’s nothing good enough for your pea brain so you get angry like some prehistoric cave man and violently throw the remote at the TV , smashing it and the screen in the process. You curse under your breath and wonder what to do next, after all, you have all that time to spend at your disposal, so why not?

Your wife rushes into the room worried you might have smashed your head on the frickin’ TV or something. Your drunken eyes meet her frightened ones and linger there for what seemed to be a life time. You are still blind. You don’t realise how you are ruining the lives of yourself and those you are supposed to cherish. ‘Family‘ That word bears no significance to you. You think what you are doing is right, with no one to tell you what to do and what not to.

Your wife disappears into the kitchen from where a burning odour wafted indicating that she screwed something up in there. You still do not realise that she would have dumped your sorry, drunken arse ages ago if it were not for your children.

All this thinking is making you a bit hazy now. You search for your dear friend, the booze buddy. You don’t even care what you’re dunking in that horrid old mouth of yours as long as it’s the same old soul numbing devils’ piss.

You hear muffled footsteps outside the door, little voices ,excited and innocent, it’s your children. You don’t bother hiding your drinking glasses and tobacco ash scattered everywhere. You couldn’t care less. Your little girl jumps into your arms, she loves you despite you verbally abusing her day by day. She starts telling you how her day went, how she made a new friend, how she fed the little brown eyed puppy Blah blah. You see that there is no end to this. you grunt and huff in annoyance. You tell her to go to her room, she just looked at you with her wide eyes, not recognising you in your temper, but you are too blind to notice any of that. “I said go to your room!” You yell right in her face, she shuts up ,much to your convenience .She’s afraid now, like all of those times you abused her mother. It’s you she’s afraid of.

Your son just stands there looking at you with disgust. You sometimes wonder why he seem a lot older than he is. The sunken ,ghostly look in his eyes tell you how he has made you his enemy. There is nothing you can teach that kid. He is becoming a man on his own. You watch him helplessly how he isn’t as gullible as his mother. You hate him. You want to bring him down to his knees, like you have done to any man who has ever opposed you. But he is your son and your blood runs in his veins. He is as hot-tempered as you are, a walking time bomb. In his hands he holds a bag of prizes he won at school for writing stories and poems and speeches. All of that bottled up into one little bastard. But you don’t give a damn about what he has achieved.You remember telling him the other day to sell all of his trophies for money to buy you more drink. You just want to keep gulping that soul numbing devil’s piss everyday.

One day you meet an accident. You loose your leg. Congratulations. You have succeeded in ruining your life yet again! Give yourself a pat on your back! Just a few more years to go and you will be 6 feet under, with all the time in the world to weep in regret, how well you could have lived your life.

Your wife and your son nourish you back to health. Your son is 15 now. Your daughter 14, still living the illusion that everything is alright, that it’s just a passing storm. At least that’s what her brother has told her.

As soon as you are back to “good” health, you feel uncomfortable ,Something’s missing, sobriety isn’t your thing, peace isn’t your driving force. You are just this walking bottomless alcohol sucking Bermuda triangle.

Your Son is graduating high school now, you wonder how time passed by so quickly and stealthily. Your daughter isn’t as meek and timid anymore. She has seen right through you . Why worry? You have nothing to lose anyway.

Your son’s 18 now. He doesn’t need you anymore. He has found someone. His heavenly father. You see your hair turning grey. You can’t move around as fast as before. You look at the impressive collection of bottles in your room and the one in your hand. Your Son has taken his mother and sister with him. He gets his hands dirty, 18 hours a day just to keep everyone alive. He writes well too, but his works go un noticed. He keeps saving your drunken arse from fights you get in, with no hope of winning. You never learn. You’re a bad father, he tells you, every morning before he leaves for work. Bad father….

You take another swig of that Devils piss as you sit on your carpet in front of the fire, wishing you were a better father. You know you don’t have much time to live. The pain on your right side grows worse each day,your eyesight grows weaker and weaker , the bottle in your hand falls on the ground ,breaking and spilling alcohol all over your feet and the carpet, a few stray embers escape from the fire, and settle on the soaked carpet.

Fire. Thankfully, you were not so stupid, and decided to stomp the crap out of the carpet as you doused the fire. You curse and swear again and again till you are out of breath.

You get up and start walking towards your table, ready for another round of wine when suddenly the room becomes warmer and steamy. You look behind you to see if the carpet had caught fire again, it wasn’t . In fact, there was no fire anymore. You hit yourself on the head, to make sure you aren’t seeing things. Your back gets warmer now , and your own shadow stretches in front of you, long and staggering, just like you. You realise that there is , somehow ,a fire behind your back. You turn your head around to see a burning man. His eyes glowed white hot.His skin on fire. He points at the bottle in your hand and then at himself.

Your hand moves on its own as it smashes the bottle on the burning man’s head. He roars and screams, glowing even hotter and brighter, setting nearby furniture on fire. You stand there, trembling and whispering prayers, but the beast does not stop. It grabs you by the neck, roasting it in the process and drags you with him to another realm. A place of suffering and agony. You kneel down and scream, tearing your vocal cords till you couldn’t do even that, as fire eats your skin, pops your eyeballs , melts your hair and boils your blood. Only one thing can satisfy you now. You see a window in front of you, it’s frames on fire, pane, sill and all. Through it you could see a man in his late 60’s, he’s holding a bottle of alcohol.It’s your Father. You want to be soothed, and that bottle of liquid in his hand looks like the only thing that can end your agony.

You leap through the ‘window’ and see that you tumble out of the fireplace and into the room. The man reminds you of your own reaction, when you saw a burning man in your own living room. You look at the bottle in his hand….

Bad Father.

Better be safe than sorry! 😛 Get your own mini fire extinguisher!

Yup, I just did,

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