>He stared at the bottle in his hand and wondered why he was still alive. Hadn’t he endured enough at the hands of his addiction? The first thing he lost was his job, his exodus foreshadowed by a short but awkward conversation with Kelly, his fat, round-eyed supervisor. Soon after, his wife moved out, taking their six-year old daughter Amanda with her. “I love you, but I just can’t allow us to continue to be hurt like this,” she had said, her eyes dry and deadened. She didn’t cry over her broken husband and decimated marriage anymore. She just felt tired and hopeless, beyond the emotional outbursts that had characterized her in the past several months.
Not long after that, his mortgage foreclosed and he was out on the street. Out on the street. He’d heard the term plenty of times before, but the reality of it was so much different. So desperate, so lonely, so indifferent. He had nowhere to go, nobody who cared and no reason to live. He stared at the bottle in his hand and wondered if he could scrape together enough money this week to buy enough booze to terminate his misery. How had it gotten this bad? Why couldn’t he drink like everybody else?