Regrets

Trigger Warning: This story contains scenes dealing with mental health, substance abuse, and physical violence.

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I sat in the den chair, my bare legs sticking to the seat in the hot, humid air of a July night, knowing full well that it would hurt like hell if I tried to get up, the vinyl tearing away multiple layers of skin. I swirled the scotch in my glass, the sweet, smoky scent wafting upwards as I raised it to my lips.

The familiar burning sensation was pleasant as the oaky liquid slipped down my throat. The room darkened as the sun set over the city, the last orange and pink light peeking through the semi-closed Venetian blinds. I sat there, lost in my thoughts, pondering about what could have been — what should have been.

A therapist once told me there are no shoulds, woulds, or coulds. Easy for him to say; he wasn’t in my shoes, nor would he ever be. Regret permeated my thoughts constantly, even in my sleep. That therapist is dead now, so I don’t have to worry about him anymore.

I looked at my now-empty glass; a minute amount of liquor sat at the bottom. I tossed my head back, tipping the glass to capture the remnants. All my instincts told me that was enough - no need to go down that road again like I’ve done thousands of times before. But that road was calling me, like it always had. I was drawn to the half-full (half-empty?) bottle sitting on the end table next to me.

I told myself no, that that was enough, but the alcohol I had already consumed was clouding my thoughts, impairing my judgment. Who was I kidding? I was going to pour myself another glass. I turned and looked at the bottle. I could no longer see the label, but that was mostly because of the darkness rather than my twisted state.

I reached over, and the bottle tipped. I grabbed at it, and as I did, I heard it hit the glass I had just put down. I was dizzy but managed to grasp the bottle and wrapped my fingers tightly around the neck. I looked at the glass, my eyesight blurry, my mind addled.

I tried to grab the glass but knocked it to the floor, and I heard it break as it hit the edge of the metal table. That wasn’t good, I thought to myself. Good thing I had socks on. I tipped the bottle to my mouth and let the amber liquid slosh past my teeth and down my throat.

I choked, the scotch not making a swift path down my esophagus but rather into my lungs. I jumped up, choking, and promptly fell, my hand landing directly on the broken glass. A shard punctured my palm, and pain seared through my body as I shouted in agony. I fell to the ground, grabbing my hand to try to stanch the bleeding.

I managed to stand up, this time without losing my balance. Blood dripped on the floor as I made my way to the bathroom. I turned on the cold tap and ran water over my wound. I flipped the light switch on with my other hand, and a large cockroach scurried to its much preferred darkness under the cabinet.

The light was bright, but I dealt with it; the windowless bathroom provided no other source of illumination. I squinted as I looked at my wound, the blood still leaking from the deep puncture wound. I grabbed a towel from the nearby rack and wrapped it around my hand, a makeshift tourniquet. Somewhere outside, a siren peeled down the street.

My head was spinning, and I felt really woozy. Man, I can’t hold my booze like I used to. I stumbled out of the bathroom, but not before grabbing the oxy from the counter. I flipped the top open - no child-proof caps for me, no sirree Bob!

I couldn’t see how many pills were in the bottle, but a slight shake told me not many, to be sure. I walked slowly into the other room, my good hand steadying myself along the wall. My studio apartment was small, the walls thin. Outside, shouting started, gaining momentum amid increasing anger. I ignored it - neighborhood fights were not infrequent.

I staggered across my tiny apartment, carefully avoiding the broken glass this time. The shouting got louder. I glanced out the window, pulling one of the slats down, to see. The shouting had turned to pushing - a young woman was in between two much larger men, and it looked like she was trying to separate them. The larger of the two men was forcefully trying to get to the other man. Other men stood around, spectating. I couldn’t understand what was being said - I wasn’t sure what language they were speaking, but it certainly wasn’t any one I understood.

The larger man took a swing at the other smaller, but still large, man. The woman had her back turned to the smaller man, and as the larger man swung, she turned, his punch landing squarely on her jaw, and her body twisted in such a way that it seemed inhuman.

I saw, then heard her head crunch on the concrete; somehow, I knew she was dead. I wasn’t sure if it was the punch or the curb that killed her. A shot rang out, and the larger man was pushed back by the force of the bullet striking him in the shoulder. A second shot hit him squarely in the chest. The smaller man, gun in hand, cried out in despair. The larger man knelt, and I don’t think he realized the girl was dead. His eyes were pleading with the smaller man. Those pleas fell on deaf ears, as the third shot hit him squarely between the eyes, and he collapsed face-first to the ground, his body falling on top of the girl. The blood from his shoulder fell on her head, the sanguinary mixture blending with the leftover rain on the sidewalk to form a gory mess.

Sirens wailed and got closer, tires screeching. The smaller man placed the gun on the hood of a car, hands raised in surrender. Police officers, guns raised, rushed towards him, and a female cop had the smaller man on the ground in no time, knee in his back, handcuffs quickly wrapped his wrists.

I walked away from the window, letting the slat I was holding snap back into place. Nothing like a good shooting to get you sober. I shook my head, not believing and yet not shocked by what had just taken place outside my window.

I sat down again, reaching for the bottle. I might have heard more shots, but that must have been my imagination. I lifted the bottle, and it felt a little light. I tilted it and saw that it was empty. My head did a little dance as waves of vertigo swept over me. I tried to get up, and my legs felt as heavy as sodden logs. I reached for the table for support and knocked something over.

Legs giving out, I landed on the floor, noticing that it was the oxy bottle I knocked over. I could use a little to help with my aching body. But where were the pills, I thought? I didn’t see them on the floor.

My eyes were heavy now and hard to keep open. Sirens peeled again, getting seemingly closer with each passing second. I struggled to rise from my supine position, my arms no longer functioning as nature intended. My whole body felt numb, and I was getting cold. How was I cold in the middle of summer and with no air conditioning in this damned apartment?

I closed my eyes, regretting just about every decision I made in my life, those decisions that had me lying on the floor in a rat- and roach-infested flat in the seediest section of town that forty years earlier, I avoided at all costs. I regretted all the arguments, the estrangement from my kids, who were doing so much better than I ever could. Memories flooded my mind - the fights, my ex throwing coffee cups at me because of my rages, my daughter, my beautiful daughter, crying in the corner, scared of my temper and wanting more than life itself for me to become the loving, caring father I could never be. The drinking, the whores, the cirrhosis that was eating my liver, the fistfight that I was on the losing end of that had me falling in such an awkward position that my back was fucked for life, that no surgery, no medication, no amount of oxy-fucking-codone could ever make me feel better, nor any amount of booze could take the physical or mental anguish that had me ended up exactly where I was destined to be.

I thought of my son, my beautiful son, star athlete, rising star, always on the correct side of things. My beautiful daughter, star pupil, also a rising star, also always on the correct side of things. My beautiful ex, who I abused- not physically, but certainly emotionally- who tried so hard to get me well, not fully understanding that it was a Sisyphean task.

I found it so hard to stay awake - I desperately wanted to. My phone - where was my phone? My head was spinning, but I couldn’t move. My eyes closed, and my mind finally went blank.

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I look down from the ceiling and see my lifeless body as paramedics frantically try to revive me. The police officer, hands gloved, lifted the empty bottle of oxycodone, which was on the floor next to me, and stood there shaking his head. “Looks like he filled it yesterday,” he said as he examined the empty pill bottle. The paramedic looked at her partner, shaking her head, knowing his efforts had been futile. “What do you think? Accidental?” the cop asked the paramedic, and she just shrugged.