I didn’t want it to be like this. My ending that is. His death should have warned me, should have prepared me for the inevitable. Did I believe I was special? That everyone’s story would come to an end, but I would be the exception?

I suppose I did think about it from time to time. Looked fate, or destiny in the face and knew that the only guarantee was that everything would come to an end. When he had gone, I thought I’d won. After all, he accepted his fate so willingly.

It was only after that I realized that he wasn’t the villain I thought he’d been. That even after he was gone, it felt like I couldn’t stop fighting. Even this far removed, I’ve never been able to shake this feeling.

Now I’m here, sitting in the dark, a new life being thrown in my face. I fought for this life. I deserve it. But maybe that’s my problem. Does anyone really deserve anything?

I couldn't bring myself to turn the lights on. Instead, I felt my way to a chair and sank down into it. There was a certain comfort in this. My legs pulsed from my feverish run that had brought me back here. This dark place that felt familiar in a cruel way. It may have been the destination I had ran to, but I couldn’t get myself to settle.

It felt as if the ticking from my watch had been magnified. As if the device were attempting to fill the gaping silence. Maybe it wasn’t my watch. I thought about my own heartbeat, a rhythm that brought me closer to the end with each strike.

I stood up, and fumbled my way to the kitchen. I began to rifle through the cabinets, until my hand grasped a mug. I pulled it out with a jerk that knocked another glass in front of it. It shattered on the ground, glass scattering around my feet.

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There was a strong urge to drop the mug in my hand as well. What did it matter? I could shred my feet to the point where I could no longer walk again. I could let large shards of glass and ceramic plunge deep into the flesh, and leave them there. If I was going to be replaced, why not leave him with a body wracked with pain and injury.

Was it even me that was holding so tightly to the mug? Or was there some part of me that he had already gained dominion over, keeping me from intentionall destroying us. A thought that normally would have filled me with enough rage to overcome what marginal control he had and carry out my grizzly plan, instead gave way to something different.

It made my limbs heavy, my arm fell to my side, the mug still firmly in its grasp. I could no longer remember what had brought me to the kitchen. My mouth was dry, and the back of my throat scratchy, but I had no desire to fill my cup with water. I lifted myself up onto the counter and shimmied my way out of the radius of shattered glass.

I returned to the living room with my empty mug, and my eyes fell upon the silhoutte of a bottle of bourbon. It wasn’t often that I drank, but I had a bottle on hand that I would occasionally sip from if I woke in the middle of the night, unable to sleep.

I filled the mug almost to the brim, drank half, and nearly wretched as my throat was met with the prolonged burn of the alchohol. I had intended to finish the rest of it, but already it felt like the whiskey was affecting me. Could that be possible? It was almost instantaneous. As I sank back into my chair looking over the dark appartment, I felt myself begin to slip away.

It made no sense. I wanted to panic, to scream, to take shards of glass and plunge them into my hand, my arm, my face, to give myself something to grip onto. Although even as those thoughts ran through my head, they felt brittle and hollow. No, what I felt was worse than fatigue, it was a precursor to death. I leaned my head back and let the resignation sink in.