Simon's Home

The alley was dark.

Random bits of trash and empty cardboard boxes lined the edges of it. Occasionally cars would zip by on either open end, but other than that, it was near complete silence. The bright, full Moon above provided what little light did reside in this alley. Under this moon sat a lone man, seemingly a pile of rags.

The man had a thick, shaggy beard, and equally long and shaggy hair. They were both a dull red. He wore a stained white t-shirt, baggy, torn jeans, and held in his hands a slightly cube-like bottle. Over the Jack Daniel's label, there was a strip of tape stuck diagonally across. On it, written in dry permanent marker, was the name "Simon".

The bottle was on the ground, and so was the man's gaze. He stared at a single point in the blackness, as if all the answers to all the problems he faced would spring forth from it, in one brilliant display of light and sound.

A woman's voice rang out in his head. It was echoing, and sharp, a memory.
"It's been three months Simon, have you even been looking for a new job?"

He took a long drink straight from the bottle, and the sharpness dulled, and the echoes stopped.

After a few moments, the man coughed a few times, and his breath could be seen in the air. This time, the voice was much younger, that of a little girl:
"Daddy, why are you crying?"

The drink was longer this time, and much more vigorous. The memory burned at the edges, and moved to the back of his mind, but it didn't leave. It refused to leave.

He looked up. The Moon was surrounded by stars, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a crisp, clear night. It was cold as well.

The man closed his eyes. Another memory flashed through his head, one he could not stop, even if he tried.

A tear drops onto the picture below, spattering against the glass. There isn't a light on in the front room of the apartment, and the clear liquid reflects some light, marring the glare on the glass.

There was a man, a woman, and a young girl in the picture. A family photo. The man was in the middle of the two, his right arm resting across both his wife's shoulders. His left hand was gripping the little girl's right shoulder. She had bright red hair, and green eyes. Her mother had brown hair, and shared her green eyes. The man's face was obscured by the tear.

The two girls were smiling.

The man holding the picture set it back down on the mantle. He had already kissed his daughter on the head, and his wife on the cheek. They were both in their respective beds, sleeping. It was late.

Without looking back again, and with tears in his eyes, the man walks to the door, opens it, and softly closes it.

Simon takes the longest drink yet of his whiskey, but when he's done, he finds that this memory does not fade. It is prominent, and burning in his mind. It weighs like a concrete elephant on his soul.

It had been nine months since he'd run away.

No longer able to pay the bills, no longer able to find a job, and no longer able to avoid his alcohol problem, Simon had decided that it would be the best thing for his family, and himself, if he just left.

He'd had no idea how wrong he'd be.

He brought the bottle to his face and stared at it. He stared at it for a long time. His name covered the label, but he knew that wasn't really the truth. If anything, the label should've been over his name.

Closing his eyes, one last memory flashed before him:
Simon walked into the liquor store, holding what was left of his money. He walked up to the counter, holding a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey. He had just enough for the bottle, and little else.

The bottle had never left its position. He kept staring at it. The tape was already peeling at the edges. There was still some liquid in the bottle, leaving it about a quarter full. Just one last drink, and the pain would just dissolve.

He brought the mouth of the bottle close to his lips. He hesitated. He closed his eyes, and the little girl and the woman came into view. They were in the same position as they were in the picture, but they were no longer smiling.

The little girl had tears coming down her face.

He opened his eyes. Simon raised his arm, and violently tossed the bottle across the alleyway, where it shattered against the brick wall. The man stood, somewhat unsteadily, using the wall as a balancing post. He clenched his fist, and looked up at the Moon.

No. No, I'm not running away again. He thought as he began walking down the alley.

The man stumbled down the alley. Any onlooker would think him just another bum, wandering about aimlessly in the night. But they were wrong.

They were dead wrong.

For once in his life, one time his miserable life, Simon knew exactly here he was going, exactly what direction he was heading, and exactly where he was needed.

Home.

Ignore.

What part of "Don't read until I'm done" don't you fucking understand?

I'm sorry Pie I change it when I get back to meh home.

EDIT: fixed

PiEdude wrote:[story]

what

BBJynne wrote:

PiEdude wrote:[story]

what

Thank you BB, for this enlightening, and necessary comment.

In all reality though

good imagery, PiE and the description of his action at the end was nice too
though I would like to note something. "A family photo." is not a sentence.

overall, it's koo

This is good

Simon needs to go to an AA meeting