Forget

I bring the cold bottle’s top to my lips and intake some of the liquid in the bottle. The bitter taste coats my tongue and burns the back of my throat, but only for a moment. Then I let out a slight grunt with a smirk as I feel the anesthetic begin to work. People say that alcohol doesn’t fix your problems, but it sure helps to calm your nerves. Maybe that’s why people call it ‘Liquid Courage.’ Not that I needed it for courage. I only needed to help make me forget. Forget…

What is it I was trying to forget again? I ask myself, but I immediately remember, and I take another swig of the ‘Fire Water’ as the Native Americans called it. I don’t want to remember. I want to forget it. I want to forget it. I want to forget it.

I sit the bottle down and begin rocking myself back and forth, running my hands through my greasy hair, trying so hard to push the thought out. My body trembles, my breath hitches, and I decide to take another drink. I let out another grunt. I stare at the bottle in my hands, and I can’t even read the words on it because my vision is so blurred, and I try shaking my head a bit, as if shaking my head will make the words unjumble. I know what it says, but I’m trying to distract myself. I see the crimson pants I’m wearing and realize I’ve been wearing them since it happened. In fact, I’ve been wearing the same outfit since it happened. I haven’t even showered. There’s still blood on my shirt. It’s almost the shade of my pants.

The smell of gunpowder fills my nose, and I shake my head violently, pushing myself back, as if that will help push away the smell that isn’t even present. It’s all in my head. It’s only a memory. She’s not in front of me anymore. She’s not-

Ding! It’s my grandfather clock. 4:00 A.M. It’s been 48 hours since the doctors declared her dead. It’s been 48 hours since my life fell apart. I take another drink, but it doesn’t help anymore. It’s done all the numbing it can do. There isn’t much left anyways. I’ve gone through 2 bottles since the doctors told me that I was never going to see her again, was never going to hold my true love in my arms again, was never going to feel her sweet kisses on my cheeks before every time before she left the house, even if she was mad at me.

The worst part of it was telling the twins. The look on their faces when I told them that they would never see their mother again, the woman who put them to bed at night for almost 7 years, packed their lunches for school, taught them (and me) how to ride a bike. I had never noticed how much those little girls looked like their mother until she was gone. Sometimes I can barely look at them, but other times, I can’t stop staring at them because they are all that’s left of her besides the photos, the material items, and the memories attached to them.

Ding! This time it’s the door. I don’t know who it could be. I grab onto the arm of the couch in front of me and lean on it for support as I attempt to stand up. The bright luminescence of the lamp that sits on my desk makes me cringe. It seems so bright. I cover my eyes and stumble for a few feet before I give up on trying to get to the door, and I fall onto the couch, the small amount of strength I have fleeing my body. All I’m able to do is hold the bottle of Whiskey and breathe.

I can’t understand their whole conversation. It’s all a big blur. I know that it’s her sister. Her sister is talking to one of the twins. I can’t tell which one; I’m too drunk. I heard the twin say that they were having nightmares about what happened. I chug the rest of what’s in the bottle. I’ve been so caught up in how much I want to forget the memory of her take her last dying breaths, the blood rushing out of her body, the color of her face becoming ghost white, that I forgot the girls had been there too. They watched their mother die in my arms, watched her take her last, dying breath, watched their mother stop being their mother.

Author's Note

Any comments? How's the ending? Should I have done that differently?