It came to me with such force that I am certain it was fired from the muzzle of a rifle. All too suddenly the shaking in my hands stops. The alternating chills and sweats subsided and I found peace. Concerned that I was going to die I sat up and waited for it all to end and when it didn't come I was slightly let down. I remembered the pact I had made to myself that fall, "I will not see the other side of this winter". It was interesting in that for so long the only thought in my mind was how she had left me. How she was gone. For two years I had drank myself nearly to death almost weekly in order to stop the images of her with all those other men. Determined, I climbed out of bed and began to take stock of my life. I wasn't dead, and she wasn't going to kill me if this addiction couldn't. I had roughly 11 dollars to my name and with rent due in a month I did the only thing I knew how to do. I packed what I could carry in a bag and set out into the January night bound for home and to reunite with an estranged family.
When I was drinking I lost my words. As long as I can remember writing for me has been like breathing for most men. I need it simply to live and I have done it just as casually. How I managed to survive for those two years without breathing will forever remain a mystery to me. After all I had seen and all the darkness I had endured I was sure now that I would be able to craft my master piece. Two years later I'm not really sure what story I'm trying to tell.
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