Street lights. That’s the first thing I remember seeing in the darkness.

There’s no sound
outside of those goddamn humming noises from the dull bulbs that create little craters on
the pavement. I assume that there’re houses next to me, surrounding me even. They all
have front doors and windows and I those windows there’s more darkness and more
depression and more anxiety. But out here there’s a promise land, a Mecca, something
holy….but I can’t see it because it’s dark and because I was never meant to see anything
in the first place.
Then there’s the smell. There’s always the lingering smell of whiskey in the air. It
emanates from the trees like sap and carries itself in the gusts of wind like leaves on an
autumn day. It burns me entering my nostrils, igniting a fire on the insides of my body. I
can hear all the tiny machines pumping my heart and regulating my blood flow, slowly
being burnt alive (is the right word alive?) by this inferno.
I walk, but walking is as painstaking as moving a boulder. My legs are heavy, and
the ground seems to pull me down every step of the way. I struggle and strain my muscles
into submission, but I do not stop moving. If I stop moving I know what will happen. The
lights will go off, and the world around me will become black. I can feel the houses
watch me as I move. I do not like this.
Floral smells now. They’re only there for a second but I can smell them, like an
air spray used in my bathroom. The smell causes my muscles to release all their tension
in hypnotic submission. I try to force them to continue working but they refuse to listen to
me. I start to nod off, unable to keep my posture. If I fall on the ground I will be
consumed and I will die. This is a fact that I’m sure of.
I reach into my pocket, hoping for salvation in the strongest way possible. I want
a bible. I don’t know why but the image of a bible is reassuring to me. What I pull out is
a bottle of whiskey with a cross on it. Inside the bottle there is a thick, dark red liquid
that stinks of chlorine. I unscrew the cap and chug. If this is the blood of Christ, I’m not
getting any drunker.
“You can’t drink that whole bottle,” I hear a voice shout out to me from the
darkness. To the left a light turns on with a clicking noise, and I see Dante standing
there, looking at me with dead eyes. His features are haunting, and even though his lips
don’t move, I hear him repeat himself. “I bet you can’t drink that whole bottle.”
 Game on. I chug. I continue chugging even after I know I’ve had enough, and
even after I feel like I’m going to throw up with the liquid simmering inside of my
stomach like a volcanic eruption. I don’t want to drink this, but I don’t have a choice. If I
don’t drink this liquid right now, I lose my identity forever.
Dante walks away from me before I can finish. I have no choice but to chug as
quickly as possible and chase after him. The ground that once pulled my legs down has
released their grip on me, and suddenly I am on ice trying to run like a penguin. I slip all
over the place and struggle to keep my balance, constantly fighting the forces of nature. I
catch up with Dante around the back of the house, and he’s waiting in line for something.
There’s a man there, holding his hand out. He is bald and smells like cheese with
a goatee that’s dated and full of crumbs. I hate him but I don’t have a choice in avoiding
him. He asks to see my identification. I hand him the empty bottle and fall over. My eyes
seal shut, and for a moment I contemplate playing dead. If he’s a bouncer, he can’t kick
me out because I’m already gone. He’ll have to call the hospital, and I’ll get my get out
of jail free card for playing possum. But it doesn’t work that way.
My brain stops thinking. All thought shuts down. The machines inside my body
cease function. I suddenly fight to hang on but can’t for much longer. I know that I
screwed up, but there’s no turning back now. The ground below me grows lips that
expand as a tongue made of maggots rolls out from the ground and scoops me up like a
lick off of an ice cream cone. I don’t try to fight it. I made my bed, and it’s time to die in
it.

With the radio off he has no choice but to listen to the sound of the wind
whipping by the car as they past each telephone pole, street sign, and tree. Julie does not
say much, keeping her focus on the road. He should be able to listen to his thoughts, but
his mind is frantic. There is an information speedway going right through his thought
process, making even the simplest of observations impossible to deal with. He misses the
days when he could have his mind clear, when words did not charge through senselessly
like they were trying to play red rover with his thoughts. He used to be able to take a ride
in a car and not think about anything. Now all he can think about is useless nothings.
“We should go out to eat,” Julie says spontaneously, nonchalantly.
 He looks at her curiously. He feels so much smaller than her while she sits in his
car, in front of his steering wheel, commanding his every direction. “Okay, where do you
want to eat?”
“Brian and Sarah texted me in the grocery store and said they were going out to
breakfast at this little café on the eastside, why don’t we join them?”
“What about the groceries?”
“They’ll be fine in the car.”
He sighs, almost impatiently. “Yeah, sure – that sounds nice.”
Julie turns the car in a new direction, towards a new destination. She seems so
content, he thinks. Everything about her is simple and satisfied. How can she be happy all
the time? How does the road seem to bend to her will, and not the other way around?
“Stop the car.”
The mirth drops. “What?”
“Stop the car,” Dominic repeats. Julie pulls over on the side of the road. Run
down houses litter the sides of the streets like a virus. Paint peels off the sides like rotting
flesh, and the doors hang on their hinges like decaying teeth. The whole neighborhood is
deteriorating.
Julie shifts uncomfortably. “Dominic…why are we stopped here? You know this
is a bad area. People get hurt here.”
His only response is by opening and shutting the door without so much as a
glimpse in her direction. He soaks in his surroundings like a sponge. Birds still chirp on
days like this, where the sun is shining even though it’s November and the air is frosty
but tolerable. Heaven still exists, even while these people dissipate to hell.
The click of a car door opening and the slamming of a car door shutting breaks
the ghetto beauty of his portrait. He turns his head and meets eyes with an uncertain and
uneasy Julie. He can almost feel her skin curl. This is the kind of neighborhood you keep
driving through, not the kind where you stop and take a picture. She must think I’m
insane, he reflects.
“Dom,” she almost pleads, “can we please go?”
“You don’t see it, do you?”
 She walks over to him, her body coiled defensively as if the air were planning to
assault her. “See what?”
“Look around,” Dominic almost insists. “It’s like looking at a dead body.
Everything about this area from the condition to the smell reeks of distain and anger.
We’re looking at a portrait of the inferno.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Julie demands almost out of desperation.
“You sound drunk.”
“These people have nothing to live for,” Dominic clarifies, in solidarity with the
environment. “They’re surrounded by drug dealers and killings. They’re underpaid,
overworked and hungry. Their only goal is to make it to tomorrow. Long term is an
illusion.”
“I’m going back in the car,” Julie asserts. “This is insane.”
“Don’t you get it?” he stammers, turning his attention towards her. “Don’t you
realize these people have nothing but their own desire to survive? Even in these
conditions when they could have any excuse to just say ‘fuck it’ and give up?”
“What’s your point?” Julie impatiently questions.
His fingers clench at his sides. Blood rushes to his head and his voice tenses up.
He raises his hands as if to expand them and make a grand point, but loses his words in
atonement. Finally, all he can manage to say is, “why don’t I have that?”

He has never been at a more uncomfortable brunch table in his life. He thought
the car ride over to the East Side was awful with Julie refusing to say a word or put the
radio on, carrying the awkward silence from the inner city to the rich side of town. Sarah
and Brian, almost immediately sensing the tension, lost all interest in talking and
retreated into their menus, where Dominic and Julie borrowed their heads as soon as they
sat down. They sat behind their menus like a 4 pack of agitated soda, waiting for some
unsuspecting soul to make the mistake of cracking one of them open. Treat it like a
bandage, Dominic thinks.
“Someone say something.”
Julie slams down her menu, sending a shockwave through the other people at the
table. All eyes fall on her, and for a second Dominic is convinced she’s going to haul off
and punch him. After a second opinion, Dominic realizes that Julie’s not on the verge of
anger, she’s on the verge of tears.
“Fuck you,” she whispers, her voice shaking. “Who the hell do you think you
are?”
Sarah and Brian look at each other uncomfortably, but Julie doesn’t notice. She
keeps her attention focused rightfully on Dominic. “What gives you the right to say you
have no desire to survive?”
“What happened?” Brian cautiously approaches.
“What do you want me to say to that?” Dominic asks Julie, keeping his attention
on her. “Do you want me to apologize? Tell you I was just kidding? I was being honest
with you.”
“What’s going on?” Sarah interjects, following Brian’s lead.
“We all have pulled so hard for you to get through this addiction,” Julie continues,
her voice splintered. “We’ve been there for every single agonizing night you’ve had, and
encouraged you through every bit of self loathing period to hang on and stay strong.
We’ve never given up on you. Why are you giving up on yourself?”
“Will one of you tell us what’s going on?” Brian asks, genuine concern exploding
through each word.
“Because I don’t know who I’m giving up on!” Dominic hisses. “I feel like I lost
my identity to sobriety. Without everything I used to do, I don’t know who I am
anymore. It wasn’t right, but this doesn’t feel right either.”
“So just like that you’re giving up?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“ ‘How come I don’t have the will to live?’ You sound like a quitter to me.”
Dominic raises his hands violently but catches himself before slamming them
onto the table in fury. “Goddamn it Julie that is not what I meant.”
“You said you would come to us if things got worse! Listen to yourself! Things
have gotten worse and you’re sitting here like it’s all just some passive issue that will
resolve itself.”
“Didn’t I come to you?” he blurts out. “Didn’t I tell you on the ride here?”
 “You’re an asshole,” she whispers. “You’re such an asshole. This is your life
Dominic. You’re acting like this is something that you can sweep under the rug and hide,
but it’s ripping you apart by the seams. And if just now you’re showing signs of it,
chances are you’ve been feeling this way for a hell of a lot longer.”
“What do you want me to say to that?” Dominic asks, slouching back into the
booth and crossing his arms with discontent.
“I want you to listen,” she orders. “Shut up and get past yourself for two seconds,
Jesus. You should’ve said something to us sooner and we could’ve gotten you help.”
“I did!” he almost shouts. “I kept asking you guys what’s the point of all this?
You guys told me, flat out, that over time I would feel better. That the anxiety would go
away and that I wouldn’t feel like I needed to get fucked up in order feel good. It’s been
six months and nothing’s changed! Things are worse than before!”
“Then you need help!”
“I don’t need anything! I can do this on my own.”
Julie rolls her eyes, appalled. “At what cost, your life?”
“You’re pissed at me for telling you how I feel inside, this is classic.”
“I’m pissed at you because you tried to hide it and then casually bring it up while
we’re standing in the middle of the fucking projects!”
“Why were you guys in the projects?” Brian interjects.
Dominic snorts fire out of his nose. “I asked you if this was it, if this is all
sobriety had to offer. The same, ritualized bullshit that happens day in and day out. I
asked everyone that. Nobody could tell me otherwise.”
“You motherfucker…you think this is a joke don’t you?”
Dominic feels a jolt of anger shoot through him. “Does this sound like me
joking?”
“Guys…” Sarah crawls verbally, sounding like a bargaining mother. “This is not
the place we should be talking. This can wait until after brunch, right? We’re all
concerned, but everyone is safe so we can at least enjoy this right?”
“We’ll all talk after this. We’ll get Andrea and Dante over, and we’ll all talk…”
“Fuck that!” Dominic almost shouts. “I don’t want everyone knowing!”
 “We’re here to help,” Brian offers. “We’re not going to hate you. We’re going to
help you get through this. But we need to know what’s going on.”