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With a hand that was far too steady he unscrewed the lid.
Then he set the bottle down.
Stared at it once again.
He spun the bottle top between his fingers.
Round and around, then he tossed it across the room, it clinked as it hit the ground, and he heard it roll until it reached the wall and toppled down.
He should leave the bottle, go back to the hospital. Samara would wake up soon, and if he wasn't there she’d want to know why. The last thing Michael wanted was to add to her feelings of being abandoned. Enough people had walked out on her, and he didn't want her to think he was just another person to do it.
But he was, wasn't he?
Hewasn'tthere.
He knew that she was going to need him and yet he wasn't there for her.
Michael picked up the bottle, held it to his lips, and tipped his head back. At the last second, he pressed his lips closed, the liquid splashed against them then dribbled down the sides of his chin.
With a sigh he set the bottle back down.
He felt trapped.
His need to drink was too strong, too powerful, sooner or later he was afraid that he would give into it, and he was even more afraid of what would happen when he did. What mistakes would he make when he was drunk? A mistake that would wind up hurting Samara?
It was like he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't.
If he left, he was hurting her, and yet if he stayed, he would wind up hurting her anyway.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he just took a mouthful of the whisky that everything would be better. Just one mouthful. That was all he needed, surely one mouthful wasn't going to hurt.
Again, he picked up the bottle, held it, stared at it, longed to drink it.
Again, he lifted the bottle to his lips.
Just one mouthful.
Only one.
He’d stop after one.
His body burned for it like he was dehydrated and craving water.
But the whisky wasn't water, and his body didn't need it.
Michael threw the bottle against the wall, sending a shower of whisky and tiny glass shards raining down to the wooden floorboards.
Despite his satisfaction that he hadn't given in to the need to drink, he could barely contain the urge to get down on his hands and knees and lick up whatever liquid was there. He should have bought another bottle when he’d stopped off on the way back from the hospital.
This was never going to work.
He couldn’t stay here.
Anxiety over every potential thing that could happen to Samara and how he would cope with it would destroy them both. He’d wind up drinking himself to death if he lost her, and possibly by having her as well.
Michael knew what he had to do.
He had to leave.
