Not Again; Next Year Another

Not again, Scott had told himself. Not again.

But sitting beside his brother’s hospital bed, listening to the dull roar-hiss of the machines keeping him alive, made him crave the bitter-sweet shock of absinthe and sambuca all the more.

“He’ll be all right,” Joey said in a low voice.

“He’s the best out of the four of us,” Scott said. “Trained the hardest, fought the longest, made the highest belt - he only had two more ranks to go before he made black. But he always panicked in a skirmish, and --”

Joey squeezed his shoulder.

Scott fell silent.

“How long has it been?” Joey asked.

“Nine months,” Scott said. “Since I tasted even a drop. I told myself that this year I’d make it to the one year mark.”

“How was it going?”

“At the party last night I was Designated Dave and proud of it.” Scott stood up. “Here. This seat is yours. I’m going outside for a smoke.”

“You should put cigarettes down on your new year do nots,” Joey said, but he sank down into the orange plastic chair anyway. “You’re a singer.”

Scott reached into his jacket and felt for his battered pack of smokes. He still had a neat little silver hip flask, but these days more often than not it was filled with coffee or that freaky herbal tea of Clay’s that he pretended he hated.

Scott stepped out onto the small balcony and shivered in the winter air; he’d forgone his coat like a macho idiot. When the first hit of nicotine spiked in his veins, he sighed in relief. He’d given up the worse of the two vices. Next year he’d give up another.

(283 words)