PIC1000: Internal Demons
I see man sitting with his head placed on a table,clutching an empty bottle of alcohol. He seems to have fallen asleep.
I feel he's passing through a lot, he feels defeated by life and circumstances.
“You're worthless; you are a bad father. You couldn't save them. This is all your fault, all your fault,” a voice screeched.
“No, let me save her. I can save her. Please don't take her away. Let me save her, please!!!” Joe replied, struggling to locate the voice and to save his wife Emily, and their daughter, Eva.
“This is your fault… Your fault!” the voice whispered once more menacingly.
“Sir, sir … Wake up, sir!” Joe jolted awake from the bad dream, drenched in sweat and reeking of alcohol. The owner of the bar was standing beside him, looking at him with eyes full of pity. Joe adjusted his glasses and took a look at his surroundings. As usual, he had slept off with a bottle of beer beside him at the bar and had stayed until the bar was about to close.
“I'm sorry. I didn't realize…” Joe drawled, wiping his face with his hands and trying to gather himself together.
“It's okay, sir. Umm, you can sleep in the storage room if you have nowhere to go. Or I can drop you at your place. Where do you stay?” The bar owner asked worriedly.
“No, no, I can walk home. Thank you, you're a nice man,” Joe drawled, staggering to the door.
The cold night air hit Joe and almost made him fall to his feet, but he held on tightly to the wall and managed to control his footsteps and headed slowly to his place. He wondered when it would end, the dreams and dark, eerie voices. The dreams wouldn't let him be, wouldn't let him forget the fateful day he'd lost everything. The voices plagued him daily, even when he was awake.
Voices from a past life, a past country. Voices that reminded him of things he was trying really hard to forget. But there was no escape for him. He'd crossed oceans, but he was still reminded every day of the beautiful face of his wife and only daughter. He knew he shouldn't have done it. Joe knew he shouldn't have stolen from the baron, but he'd foolishly done it anyway.
Somewhere in his mind he thought he could steal from the biggest kingpin in his country, who happened to be his boss, and get away with it. The plan was to get out of a life of crime; he would steal the money and run to another country with his wife and child and start a new life. He'd run away, quite alright, but he was broken, shattered, and a shell of himself.
The Baron had taken the lives of those that meant the most to Joe, and then, like the coward that he was, Joe had run. Now he regretted that decision; he should have just stayed and let the Baron kill him too. Surely death was better than the haunted life he lived in this new country. Joe staggered up to the entrance of the tiny room he rented close to the train station.
He sat on the edge of the small bed and took in a deep breath of air, trying to hold down the vomit he could feel rising in his throat. It only made him feel more nauseous, and he threw up all over the floor. The retching and heaving made his body shake badly and reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything in days except alcohol. He didn't care anyway; he wanted his life to come to an end, and the alcohol would get the job done faster.
Joe whimpered and collapsed on the bed. Letting out a silent scream as the voices in his head came back, reminding him, taunting him, driving him crazy.
“You did this, it's your fault, all your fault!!"
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry…” he said to the dark room, bursting into tears and praying that something or someone could save him or send him to join his family very soon...