I remember when I first started drinking. I said I'll only have a pint. That turned into three. I don't remember what happened after that, but I woke up a girl's place. I had no idea who she was, I only hope it was good, as I fled the scene.
It's been five years since that time.
I had a drink every day, no exception. Some days it went in quick, one after the other, to the point where I repeated that scenario several times a week. Then there were those days when I had one, and had to go to the toilet to throw up.
I felt like shit sometimes, yet as much as I would've wanted to let go of alcohol, I could not. It's probably the same for cigarette smokers and junkies. You get addicted, and you can't stop.
I would've gone for a pint today, too, but I had to go to the doctor's appointment.
She looked sad when I came in. "What's wrong?" I said. "I have your test results." She said, raising some papers in the air. "Bad?" "Yeah." "1 to 10?" "9." "Oh, dear." I thought and took a seat. "Your liver's almost dead. I've been looking at solutions all day, but there's no one with your blood type." "Fuck." "Yeah. There's nothing I can do for you." "What now?" "You have a month, maybe two."
And I left her office. On my way home I should've cried, but I had empty eyes, the kind you have when you're sad. I couldn't do anything.
I passed by my pub grounds, where of the guys I hung out with said their greeting, and I ignored them. I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what.
This news came as a shock to me.
It's been three days and I've been in my room for the whole time. I didn't pee. Didn't need to. The belly grumbled at times, and I told it to fuck off; it did.
"Now what, huh? Now what?"
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