She walked to my bedside with her eyes visibly distraught, almost crying, almost worried, almost sorry. Being completely sorry was never her strong suit.
'You know,' she began. 'Those two - I always knew what those two wanted. They'd always ask, they'd cry, they'd even demand, but you - sometimes I would wake up in the night to find you awake, to find you hungry - but you never cried - you'd sleep in hunger. Even as a baby you never asked.' And then she took my hand, 'and you still don't ask. I took care of them, and you took care of me - maybe that's why I lost you. Maybe, that's why you're so angry now.' And the sun began shining through the panes.
In the blistering hot morning, he walked up to the window and lit a cigarette. I remember how I used to see him in my half sleep, and realise, he was happy. And there, splayed on the desk, the opened envelope of a telephone bill caught his eye. When he inspected the bill, he widely smiled; a smile which both spoke of contentment and fulfilled expectation.
'It's my number,' he said. 'It's all my number.'
I did not answer.
'I know,' he said. 'Who have you to call, but me?' And, in a swift stroke, like an old newspaper that served no purpose, he sent the bill flying back unto the desk. He reached for another envelope. I reached for my whiskey.
And when I held the bottle of whiskey, as though it were my wife, she said 'no - no, this is wrong. You shouldn't do this to yourself…it's just not right. You're so beautiful, and….don't do this.' A sobbing woman beseeched me in the dark.
Now, when I turn off my lights, it turns off truly for I have not windows, and therefore, the nuisance of light. The sun has no power in this room and light does not even carelessly wander by. What's without does not come within. And within, the only light, if there is to be light at all, lies at end of a bottle. Within, there are no lies; within, there is no pretense. Within, as it is for those of us who have a shard in our heart, there's just a man in the dark.