Bruised eye, popped blood vessel, clenched teeth, making excuses for the one who has wronged her. Refuses to demolish the room that the squatter has claimed as his own. Her heart aches when she thinks about it, pulling up the floorboards, tearing down the scaffolding and shutting the door.


The depression comes in waves but is fixed by one, two, three shots from a handle of whatever is lying around, his alcoholism has become a sport to him, he remembers those fifths of Jaeg under his pillow, the pints of 100 proof vodka in the drawer and that is child’s play. The suicidal thoughts have been more frequent thinking of the different ways he’d do it: a handful of sleeping pills, a straight razor, placing a pistol in his mouth closing his eyes and pulling the trigger. He finishes off the handle and falls asleep hoping that he wont wake up.


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