Cheetahclub84

He quit drinking when she told him that she didn't want to lose him. He'd always hated the taste of his own downfall: bitter. Didn't like fueling a fire in not only his stomach, But in his rage as well. He didn't like how the bottle in his hand looked like a withering heart squeezed between a white-knuckled fist. The fridge started to fill up again once she was gone. It was only a couple drinks at first; an entire bottle before and after her funeral; restocking every other day; one near empty glass, quarter filled with melted ice staring at a blank screen gun in hand. I bought him a bottle once; he told me it'd be his last. It's still on h