The Bottle or the Wife? Part One

The Bottle or the Wife? Part One

He felt sick to his stomach, and it wasn't the alcohol's doing. At least, not directly. He had broken her heart. He had taken the love she held for him, and turned it aside for the goddamn bottle. Yeah, so he'd been drinking since he was twelve. So it would be hard to quit, naturally. But did he have the capacity? All Xandir could think about was the sad image of his wife, the wife he'd loved for so long, who meant so much. Even if he could clean up, would he be too late? Question after question, doubt after doubt rushed through his drunken brain until he started to cry. He let himself slump to the floor, curling into a ball of agony and angst.
"Why am I such a fuck-up?" he murmured. He dug his nails into his scalp, wanting to rip the hair and skin right from his head. <If I'm gone,> he thought, <she won't be sad anymore. She won't have to put up with me.> Then, his sense kicked in. <Then again, if she didn't care about me, this wouldn't upset her. Killing myself won't do any good. Besides, you'd be chickening out, asshole. You need to stop this shit. Make her smile again. You have to.> He nodded as his own ideas.
"Yeah, asshole. You gotta make it... make it right..." Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep on the rough floor, drooling like an idiot on the carpet.