Site of the writer Andrew Wood

What can I do, but stare? Stare into the void outside. Drops of rain bounce off the concrete in front of me like a thousand dancers, enticing me into its performance. I step out through the French doors from my alcove of a living room and feel the warmth caress my face like a mother’s love and devotion.

Amidst the rain that trickles down my face there is something thicker and hotter – a tear. I open my eyes and look down at the drink in my hand, the thin, golden brown liquid slowly being watered down. Without a thought I toss the scotch to the floor, its malted goodness spoiled by Nature’s sorrow. A bitter taste roaming around my mouth like an intruder; it is unwanted and evil. The glass is stained with remorse and a tortured being – so many times have I drunk myself into unconsciousness.

For how much longer can I keep this up?

I attempt a smile upon my face, but I know that it is not genuine – it is a falsity. The child in me sits down on the slabs of my patio and cuddles my knees to my face. The glass is to one side, discarded like my own feelings.

For so long I have given myself to people without getting anything back, except the satisfaction that I have helped someone with their troubles, or at least made them smile. How much longer? Am I to drink myself into failure? I keep telling myself that I must live for me and my life, but I cannot help it.

Things get from bad to worse in my head when in actuality things are fine. Maybe, just maybe, I need help.

Help myself before helping others?

I glance at the drying brown beverage on the floor and sigh heavily, my chest tightening. Images, poignant and vivid, flash in front of my eyes. Not for the first, or last, time in my life I cry… hard.

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