With a deep inhale, I glance to my right before grabbing the cheap, decorative wooden bowl my dad always put his keys in when he came home from work. I slide it toward me, and once it comes into my peripheral, I look down at the contents inside.
Pill bottles. Four of them, to be exact. All filled to the brim with Oxys and Dilaudids—Dominik’s favorites, according to Jay Duval. But it’s one of the objects placed in the bottom of the bowl, underneath the bottles, that holds my attention.
A syringe.
It’s not the only one, but I hope it’s all I’ll need.
I stick my hand in the bowl and fish around the rattling bottles to grab ahold of the thin piece of plastic. I spin it around between my fingers, back and forth. Back and forth.
I take a long, languid sip, letting the whiskey linger in my mouth before I swallow, relishing in the stinging burn that slides down my throat and shoots up into my nostrils.
And that’s where I sit until the rain stops and it’s just me with an empty bottle, an empty glass, and an empty heart.