Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, "I Think We're Alone Now"
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eMyAbg6CWQ
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Alone with your thoughts. The very place you have always hated to be and avoided at any cost. Totally alone. Just you and you and you... And this time there's no bottle or bag to save you from yourself. You're pretty sure there's a mild sedative of some kind in the bag of fluids that's slowly dripping down into the I.V. in your arm, but it only seems to be amplifying the negative effect of your complete and total isolation. There's no retreat. There's no escape. There is however, surrender, and because you're helpless to do otherwise, you give in to it, hating yourself for it all the while.
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Your mother does not come back. You half expected her to, but it seems that this time she was serious. Her words float back into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. What the fuck does she know anyway? All the people that love you? No one gives a shit about you! Your father? What a fucking joke! He wouldn't even get you out of jail this last time, he just slammed down the phone and left you to rot in that stinking cage... he could have easily afforded the bail, he had piles of money socked away. All he's ever done is criticize you and tell you you were no good. As a kid he used to get drunk sometimes and verbally abuse you just so you would cry and he would have a reason to hit you. Your mom could have probably stopped it with a word, but instead she just turned a blind eye.
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Later, when you were alone in your room crying, she would comfort you and tell about how he really loved you, he was just under a lot pressure. Pressure from what, she never said, but it sure wasn't sexual frustration, later you would hear them having sex through the paper thin walls and feel sick to your stomach.
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You have no real friends, nothing even resembling a career, you're too afraid to let anyone get close enough to you to forge any kind of lasting relationship, and you have long since killed off any aspirations. Hopes and Dreams are dead and buried. Fucking and getting high are all you have, all you know, and seem to be the only thing you have ever been any good at.
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You're not trying to kill yourself, you're just doing what it is that you do best, because that's all you know how to do. If you must be a no good piece of shit why not be the best no good piece of shit you can be? But you don't really want to die. Do you?.
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You realize that you don't know the truthful answer to this question, and it scares you. Fuck this, you've had enough of this pity party, thank you very much. Sitting up in bed, you pull the I.V. out of your arm and the catheter out of your dick, which forces you to let loose with a blood-curdling scream. After looking around the room for your clothes and not finding them, you walk out the door. Running away from this hospital, this place of forced isolation and Death. Running away from yourself.