WEEK FIVE CONTENDERS: DOMINATE (4-0) vs EVICTION (3-0) TIE

Dominate · 04-28-2022, 12:09 AM

5 years ago…

He unloads a cooler from his new sedan’s roof racks
A giggling niece runs barefoot over freshly mown bluegrass
A few drinks. A few laughs. Cheers. He lifts a huge glass.
A long conspicuous gawk at the sister-in-law with the huge ass.
Too much, too fast; he downs another bourbon or three
Now he’s talking a little loudly, slightly slurring his speech
He’s ranting - a sermon to preach. His wife is embarrassed.
He’s growing argumentative, picking fights with her parents
She wants to go home. He says his stomach is sick
Then vomits his potato salad all over one of the kids

5 months ago…

His wife is on night shift.
He settles into an armchair with a peaty ten year old sidekick
He likes this; alone with his drink without her scorning
No lecture about she’s growing concerned and this is a warning
Two in the morning, the bottle’s empty. It’s OK, he’ll sip on some beers
He opens the fridge to find them and - SHIT! All six disappeared
That fucking bitch interfered! He turns the house upside down, panicked
Not a fucking drop in sight. He’s growing desperate now. Manic.
He grabs his keys and heads out. Finds a bar to ease this ripe concern
…Leaving his 10 month old son alone in the house until his wife returns

She tells him it’s over. He packs up his life reluctantly
He stays on a buddy’s couch a while. Vodka and sprite for company
… He doesn’t fight for custody

5 days ago…

The diagnosis was delivered after a bevy of scans
Cirrhosis of the liver. Irreparable. Very advanced.
The prognosis was the kicker. They gave him a couple of years
And less… much less, if he wouldn’t ease up on the beers
But his only means of coping is a bottle driven stupor
Every sober thought he has feels like an obstinate intruder
Two days and he’s back to drinking. He marks himself a loser
Scared and seeking solace in the arms of his abuser

Now…

The carpet is sticky.
A teal and mustard atrocity straight from the heart of the sixties.
He stumbles out of the men’s room, smelling of vomit and whiskey.
Dark ringed and misty, his eyes meet the barman’s. He orders a gin.
He’ll cut this one with tonic then go back to the hard stuff again.
A quarter to ten in the morning, no calling into work anymore.
Not today, or tomorrow, or however long eternity’s for.
The certainty’s more of a comfort now, knowing this all will pass.
He watches his hand as it reaches, trembling, towards his glass.
Expediting his exit from this existence he aimlessly nurtured
Passing what’s left of his life as a passive, sedated observer

04-28-2022, 12:09 AM	#4
Dominate Tread Lightly. Join Date: Feb 2013 Posts: 2,533 Battle Record: 26-9 Champed - Netcees Battle League - Battle Arena - Tag Team Tournament III - Tag Tournament: "Omicron Variant" Rep Power: 18197460	5 years ago… He unloads a cooler from his new sedan’s roof racks A giggling niece runs barefoot over freshly mown bluegrass A few drinks. A few laughs. Cheers. He lifts a huge glass. A long conspicuous gawk at the sister-in-law with the huge ass. Too much, too fast; he downs another bourbon or three Now he’s talking a little loudly, slightly slurring his speech He’s ranting - a sermon to preach. His wife is embarrassed. He’s growing argumentative, picking fights with her parents She wants to go home. He says his stomach is sick Then vomits his potato salad all over one of the kids 5 months ago… His wife is on night shift. He settles into an armchair with a peaty ten year old sidekick He likes this; alone with his drink without her scorning No lecture about she’s growing concerned and this is a warning Two in the morning, the bottle’s empty. It’s OK, he’ll sip on some beers He opens the fridge to find them and - SHIT! All six disappeared That fucking bitch interfered! He turns the house upside down, panicked Not a fucking drop in sight. He’s growing desperate now. Manic. He grabs his keys and heads out. Finds a bar to ease this ripe concern …Leaving his 10 month old son alone in the house until his wife returns She tells him it’s over. He packs up his life reluctantly He stays on a buddy’s couch a while. Vodka and sprite for company … He doesn’t fight for custody 5 days ago… The diagnosis was delivered after a bevy of scans Cirrhosis of the liver. Irreparable. Very advanced. The prognosis was the kicker. They gave him a couple of years And less… much less, if he wouldn’t ease up on the beers But his only means of coping is a bottle driven stupor Every sober thought he has feels like an obstinate intruder Two days and he’s back to drinking. He marks himself a loser Scared and seeking solace in the arms of his abuser Now… The carpet is sticky. A teal and mustard atrocity straight from the heart of the sixties. He stumbles out of the men’s room, smelling of vomit and whiskey. Dark ringed and misty, his eyes meet the barman’s. He orders a gin. He’ll cut this one with tonic then go back to the hard stuff again. A quarter to ten in the morning, no calling into work anymore. Not today, or tomorrow, or however long eternity’s for. The certainty’s more of a comfort now, knowing this all will pass. He watches his hand as it reaches, trembling, towards his glass. Expediting his exit from this existence he aimlessly nurtured Passing what’s left of his life as a passive, sedated observer __________________ The Bad Guys