• "It's my entire fault..." Jack spins the glass of whiskey slowly in his hand, keeping it placed on the counter in front of him, watching the golden liquid spin around in the glass, hitting the sides like waves. Jack looked up, catching site of himself in mirror behind the bar counter. His normally neat black hair was a mess; his face was covered in dark stubble. His normally bright blue eyes were blood shot from crying, tear tracks marked his face. His shirt sat with two buttons open and his tie hung loosely off his neck, he didn't care anymore what he looked like, he was sitting in a bar for Christ sakes! The one place he thought he'd never return.
    The bartender was at the other end talking to another customer, the bell above the door rang and someone else walked in, from the sound of the footsteps they were in a hurry. Jack took a sip of the whiskey and put his head down on the counter. The whiskey burned his throat but it felt good, he wasn't usually a whiskey drinker, but lately he'd started becoming one. The person who had just come in sat beside him, he smelt of rain and cologne. The man put his hand on Jacks shoulder and spoke softly
    "Jack what are you doing here?" He recognized the voice almost instantly as Mark, his one close friend. Jack lifted his head up slowly, and took another drink, closing his eyes as the drink burned his throat.
    "I'm trying to drink away their memories..." He downed the last of what was in his class and raised it up, signalling the bartender for a refill. No one spoke as the bartender walked over, pulling a bottle from the shelf and pouring the golden liquid into the glass, Jack watched as he filled it halfway, same amount he'd been having all night.
    "You shouldn't be here, you know they wouldn't want you to" Mark tried to lift Jack out of his chair, but Jack wouldn't budge.
    "What they don't know won't hurt them..." He took a sip from it, again enjoying the feeling of the burning sensation in his throat. He closed his eyes and for a minute he could see their faces. Brown hair, green eyes, soft skin... he could see her as if she was clear as day. He opened his eyes and he was back in the bar, looking at himself in the mirror across from him again. He ran his hand slowly across his face letting out a slow sigh; he didn't want to see his face again.
    "Come on Jack...let me take you home, and put you to bed, we can talk about this in the morning" Mark didn't try and lift him up this time, Jack knew he was just staring at him, waiting for him to move or say something. Jack thought of what he could say, what he could do.
    "Does it matter...in the end? Nothing will change...they will still be gone, it will still be my fault..." He took another sip, closing his eyes, not bothering to hold back the tears as they rolled down his cheek. He felt Marks arm go around him trying to comfort him. "No matter what I do, how much I drink, how many people I talk to...it all remains the same. I go to sleep I see their faces, I wake up I'm reminded of them" He took another drink, the burning temporarily clearing his mind. He knew what he wanted to do, but could he do it?
    "In time you'll for-"
    "No I won't, don't say that. After what I did, to my wife...my son...I'll never forget..." Jack took big sip, and closing his eyes tight. The memory flashed before his eyes. It was raining hard; he was driving and yelling, yelling at the two people he cared the most about. He wasn't paying attention to his driving, he was too busy yelling at them...but for what... they did nothing wrong. He lost control and hit her, why...why did he do that. The car hit something, lost control and flipped, rolling several times before landing in a ditch, bottom up...
    He opened his eyes, he hadn't realized he was crying again, Mark was rubbing his back softly he didn't say anything. Jack pressed the glass against his forehead, he had to leave, and he needed to go home and just...try and sleep this off. He downed the last of the whiskey and slowly stood up ignoring the burning sensation. Mark looked up at him; Jack looked at Mark, wearing a wet long coat, his brown hair wet from the rain, his brown eyes full of concern and pity for Jack.
    "Can...Can you take me home Mark?" Jack picked up his long coat off the floor and hung it off his arm, he felt dizzy while he was standing, picking up his briefcase off the floor, he felt even dizzier, how much had he drank?
    "Yes absolutely, my cars just down the road, you go I'll pay for your drinks" Mark stood up slowly and walked over to the bartender. Jack began walking towards to the door, he walked slowly every step he took he could hear his sons voice. "Yay! Dad you're the best!" another step and he heard his wife "I love you sweetheart..." their voices swam through his head, not all were pleasant."YOU'RE A HORRIBLE PERSON" she screamed...she had never said it to him, but ever since they died from his stupidity, he feels like she's there...yelling at him...putting him down...
    "JACK!" Mark yelled, Jack didn't realize he walked past the car. He turned around and saw Mark running towards him, he didn't go too far past the car. Mark took Jack by the arm and led him to the car, the rain came down harder. Jack didn't live far from the bar, but in his state he couldn't walk home without possibly getting hit or lost.
    Jack stared out the window, face pressed against the glass. The window fogged up, every time he breathed out, he watched the street lights pass by. The car stopped at a light and for an instant across the road, he saw his wife and son holding hands staring at him. His heart jumped and pulled back from the window, blinking several times. He looked at Mark quickly and spoke "Did you see that...?"
    "See what Jack?" Mark looked out the window, and Jack looked out as well, but nothing was there but an empty street corner.
    Next thing Jack knew he was in his house alone; Mark had just left with the promise to pick him up in the morning for work.
    Jack walked slowly through the hall, dragging his feet as if he were some kind of zombie "Ha-ha...it fits...I feel dead inside anyway"
    He looked up, and there she was in all her beauty...Sara. Her long brown hair, bright green eyes, soft white skin, she was smiling at him as she did when they first met. He reached his hand out to touch her; he had to know if she was real. As his hand reached forward, she seemed to get further and further away...then her face changed
    "You killed us...you know that?" Her voice was soft, but full of anger and hate towards him "You lost control...you never told me anything...I couldn't help you if I didn't know what was wrong" She walked towards him slowly; he couldn't help but back up slowly. He wanted to be with her so bad, but he was afraid. "Why didn't you talk to me Jack? I could have helped you...I thought you loved me...loved Max..."
    "I did love you...I loved you both more than you could possibly imagine" Jack kept his voice low, he felt like screaming but he couldn't.
    "Don't lie to me...you didn't love me...why did you hit me? Why did you yell at us Jack?"
    "Stop"
    "Why?! I thought you loved me "her voice was getting louder
    "Stop..." so was his
    "Didn't we mean something to you? You hit me! You killed me and you're Son!" She was screaming now
    "STOP!" He yelled and threw his briefcase across the room; it flew through her and smashed against the wall, shattering the frames of the pictures. He could still her voice, echoing through his head, it was driving him insane. He gripped his hair with hands and let out a loud scream of his own, it was all driving him mad since the day they died
    He walked over to the table where the smashed picture frames and pictures laid. There many half were from the briefcase he had thrown, the rest were dusty but the images could still be seen. Jack picked up a picture of himself holding Sara from behind; it was from before Max was born. He ran his fingers across the picture; the trails his fingers left being the only clear part on it the picture. He put the picture back down, and slowly looked at the rest. Pictures from their vacations, family portraits, Christmas, birthdays, voices ran through his head as he looked at each picture. He covered his ears and screamed again.
    "STOP PLEASE STOP" he closed his eyes tight and pressed his hands hard over his ears. No matter how hard he pressed they wouldn't stop, he could hear them as if they were standing right beside him.
    He opened his eyes, and without thinking pushed all the pictures off the table, they all smashed into each other. He didn't care anymore; he just wanted it stop, he wanted to forget them and everything that happened.
    He walked over to his liquor cabinet, it was locked. Sara always kept it locked because she didn't like drinking; they only had it for when company came over. He tried ripping the look off with his hands but it wouldn't come, he yelled loudly and began punching at the thin wooden doors. His knuckles began to bleed as he punched harder and harder, he heard the wood crack and punched his hardest breaking a hole the size of his fist through it. He kept his fist clenched, letting the blood run through his fingers he didn't care that he was bleeding, he didn't care that he was in pain, he would do anything to keep them out of his mind.
    He pulled bottle after bottle out of the cabinet, looking for the whiskey. He didn't know why he wanted, maybe it was for the burning sensation it gave him or maybe it was because that's what his father always drank...childhood memories of an abusive father, who knows.
    He pulled the whiskey out took the top off, with his blood covered hand. The bottle had never been opened before, never drank from it, he tasted whiskey and blood, swallowed hard and closed his eyes, enjoying the burning sensation again.
    He walked over to pile of pictures lying on the ground and looked down at them. The glass on most of them was broken completely or cracked severely. He took another sip from the whiskey bottle, again tasting the mixture of blood and whiskey. He slowly poured some over the pictures, his face twisted in a weird smile, yet tears were running down his face. Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a box of matches he had taken from the bar when he first arrived at the bar. He pulled one out of the box, he struck it once and instantly the flame came to life. He held it up in front of his face, admiring the flame the heat from it gently touching his face. He dropped the match onto the pile of whiskey soaked pictures and took a step back as it instantly burst into flames. The smile on his was gone, emotionless he stood, tears running down his cheeks.
    "Why are you doing this daddy?"
    His opened wide, and turned around. He could have sworn he heard his son's voice...
    "You want to get rid of us?"
    He heard it again, he looked around behind him but he couldn't see where it was coming from. He slowly walked away from the flame.
    "Daddy..."
    He walked into the bathroom, flipping on the light as he walked in. There in the mirror was himself, hair a total mess, his eyes blood shot from the tears, his white shirt untucked and in some places covered with his blood. Beside him stood his four year old son Max, his hair a mess like it always was and as black as his was, his eyes bright green like his mothers, his smile was more like his mothers, but had a hint of his own it.
    "Why are you trying to forget us Daddy?"
    He couldn't look at his son; he closed his eyes tight, hoping that it would just go away. The smile of the burning pictures got stronger; he had to put it out...
    "Why won't you look at me?" He heard his son say
    "I can't..."
    "Why"
    "I just...can't..."
    "Please Daddy LOOK AT ME"
    Jack opened his eyes and his son as he was when the crash happened. Covered in blood, arm broken, and a tree branch through his chest...
    Jack screamed and threw the bottle at the mirror, and immediately began punching with both fists at the mirror, the alcohol burning the cuts he was making from all the punches. He screamed and continued to punch the mirror, the burning smell was slowly going away, the fire must have died. He stopped punching the mirror and stared down at the sink, the blood from his hand ran into the sink slowly. He could hear their voices, their screams from that night. He didn't want to hear it anymore, he couldn't take it anymore.
    He ran out of the bathroom, into his bedroom, yanking open the dresser drawer and pulling out the 45 pistol he kept in there, always loaded in case someone broke in. He walked over to his bed and laid down, he looked to his left and saw the time was 2am, then he saw the picture had taken of Max and Sara at the beach...only a week before the crash. He ran his bloody hand across the picture, a single tear coming from his eyes.
    He put a pillow over his face, and put the gun to the front of it.
    "IM SORRY" he screamed, and pulled the trigger.
    No one heard the shot.
    Mark pulled up to Jacks house, at 8am. A little late but he figured Jack could use the sleep, he wanted him to be ready for a full day of work. He honked the horn twice, hoping he wouldn't have to get out of the car to get him, it was still raining and he didn't want to get wet. He waited six minutes before he got out of the car and went to the door, he got to the door and before even knocking he could smell something was either burning or burnt.
    He tried opening the door, and thankfully it was unlocked. He pushed it open and ran inside, to his surprise nothing was burning, but something was definitely burnt.
    "Jack?" He called; he walked towards where the burning smell was the strongest, and saw the pile of ash on the ground in front of him. He knelt down to get a closer look; he pulled a pen out of his pocket and pushed it around through the ash. Most of it was burnt to a crisp, but he found one piece that was for the most not burnt. He picked it up with his fingers and took a close look at it, it was a picture of Sara, Max and Jack that he had taken at Max's birthday.
    He stood up and looked around the room, he saw the cabinet with the hole punched through it, he didn't bother checking that. He saw the bathroom light was on and walked towards its, he didn't have to step inside to see what was wrong with it.
    There was glass and blood all over it. The mirror was cracked and covered with the blood, pieces of glass from the whiskey bottle were everywhere, blood covered the inside of the sink, and little puddles of whiskey were all around the counter.
    Mark stared in shock at what he saw; he wasn't prepared for what he saw next.
    His heart beat faster, he needed to find Jack, and he had to make sure he was okay.
    "Jack! Jack are you here?" Mark called out
    He ran towards the bedroom, but stopped dead in his tracks when he got inside.
    There, laying on the bed in front of him was Jack. His body was lip, motionless like a doll, blood covered the pillow over his face, and the gun lay on the floor beside the bed. A picture of Sarah and Max was on the floor beside the gun, bloody fingers had been dragged across it.
    Mark fell against the wall and sank down, his mouth was covered and tears stung his eyes. His best friend lay dead in front of his eyes; he didn't hold back the tears, he just let them fall.