Empty Bottles; Broken Promises

 

She couldn’t; I always did.

But there was never any real choice involved.  There was no enlightened resistance possible when caught in the gravity spiral pull of another night dragged into the swirl of her booze-fueled disconnect.

It was always premeditated.  Our paths, and our roles, were predetermined long before we ever began that final heated collapse on a cold Christmas morning, ultimately leading us into just more miscommunication in a chain reaction disaster of conflicting intentions.

It was just more indignity shouldered with bending back, watching her kissing the bottom of yet another fucking bottle.  Or several.  Stolen or purchased with sticky change salvaged from underneath wedged cushions- it never really mattered to her.

Because to an addict, it always tastes the same.

But then, it was never about real enjoyment.  Or satisfaction.  It was about laying claim to anything that might block out the regret(s).  Or the often self-inflicted damage(s).  Or the grunting fear that stalked manically on the unfed tick-tock whispers of her many incurable addictions pulling us both down.

The booze.  The pills.  The lustfully validating high of scoring that next full and flush dick in line. 

It was nearly impossible to keep her many shadow people at bay.  The silhouettes she adamantly refused to acknowledge because in her projected reality, they simply did not exist.  She dismissively denied accountability for giving birth to the nebulous companions on her highly-touted journey of filthy disappointment, reeking of stale smoke.  And perversion.  And grungy, piss-stained bedding.

But they did exist.  And I watched soberly horrified as they constantly whispered to her all the awful things that a compassionate human being should never say out loud, but somehow, she always said them to me, anyway.  And I stood stoically silent as they subversively nudged her into that next whirlwind bad decision, even though ultimately, I was the only one who was ever unjustly held accountable for those decisions.

She could never see them because she was usually too drunk.  Or checked out on her pharmaceuticals.  She was just another shit-texting, booze-bag junkie slut; I was simply the idiot who tried to foolishly love her back healthy again.

Even at the bottom of her most depraved gutter, I tried to uselessly foster some semblance of a moral code.  But it never seemed to really stick for very long.  Not when there was a new bottle to suck off in place of entertaining newer dicks.  She constantly sought out the warmer water offered in the shallow compliments of handsome strangers, basking in the temporary attention rather than doing the fucking work required to maintain some semblance of sobriety.

I stupidly swallowed down the lies; she constantly increased the dosages.  And she did lie- constantly and indiscriminately, whereas I could only provide a mute, but honest accountability of our ugly mutual existence on the constant edge of inevitable collapse.

Even when I was losing faith, or what little remained of my battered and exhausted patience, I still stood faithful in the idea of us.  And more times than not, I stayed silent just to cope with the enormous burden of living out that awful attachment.  At least until that frenzied final night when I refused to share her bottle of convenient answers and she chose to throw it at my head.

Sometimes, I wish she would have had better aim.

Sometimes, I wish she never even knew my name.

And sometimes, I follow her unhealthy lead and avail myself of that very same bottle, looking for the answer inside that has never once said her name.

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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