Time was supposed to heal.
The booze should have at least deadened the blow.
It was 40 years of distilled perfection in every swig and five glasses had managed to do nothing.
The sixth was already poured.
All I wanted was just one night without the dreams.
One night of restful sleep.
The liquid in the syringe was looking more and more tempting by the minute.
It would be a small prick for the chance of utter silence.
That small vein of hope would have to do for tonight.
If it didn’t work, there was still the revolver in my desk.
All for one night.