Still Breathing: A short story about grief and addiction
Marcus drinks before his feet hit the floor.
The whiskey doesn’t burn anymore. That stopped three days after the funeral. Now it just fills the space where his lungs used to work right.
Sarah’s toothbrush is still in the holder. Pink. She’d used it the morning before the accident. Before the semi ran the red light. Before everything stopped making sense.
He drinks until he can’t see it anymore.
***
The alarm goes off at six thirty.
Marcus lies in bed and listens to it scream. His head is splitting. His mouth tastes like copper and rot. The ceiling spins if he moves his eyes too fast.
He should shower. Eat. Get to work.
Should.
The bottle is on the nightstand. He drinks before his feet hit the floor. Just enough to stop the shaking. Just enough to function.
He makes it to the shower. The water runs cold before he remembers to adjust it. His ribs show through his skin. When did that happen?
He doesn’t remember.
***
Dave’s office smells like leather and coffee Marcus can’t stomach anymore.
“This isn’t working, Marcus.”
The words come from far away. Marcus sits very still. If he moves too fast, he’ll throw up. Or shake. Or both.
His shirt hangs off him. The collar gaps. He cinched his belt two notches tighter last week. This morning he needed a third.
“We want to help. EAP. Medical leave.”
“I’m fine.”
Dave slides a pamphlet across the desk. Marcus sees the word “Employee” and “Assistance” before his vision blurs.
“You’re not fine. And we both know it.”
Marcus should argue. Should defend himself. Should say something.
But the words won’t come. They’re stuck behind the whiskey and the exhaustion and the way his hands won’t stop trembling.
“Two weeks severance. And Marcus?” Dave’s voice softens. “Please. Get help.”
Marcus nods.
He stops at the liquor store on the way home.
***
Robert’s name lights up his phone.
Marcus stares at it. Sarah’s father. The man who walked her down the aisle. Who held Marcus at the funeral and told him he was still family.
Four rings. Five.
He should answer. Robert has called every week since Sarah died. Sometimes twice a week.
Marcus turns the phone face down.
It buzzes again an hour later. Then the next day. Then three days later.
Then it stops.
The silence is worse than the ringing.
But silence doesn’t ask questions Marcus can’t answer.
***
Food becomes an afterthought.
Marcus stands in front of the open fridge at two in the morning. Milk expired two weeks ago. Something in Tupperware he doesn’t recognize. Flies crawl across bread on the counter. He watches them. Black specks moving in and out of the mold.
His stomach growls. It’s been doing that a lot lately. Growling, cramping, twisting into knots that make him double over.
He closes the fridge.
The whiskey is right there. On the counter. Always on the counter.
It fills him up. Quiets the gnawing. Makes the shaking manageable.
For a while.
***
His pants won’t stay up anymore.
Marcus stands in the bathroom, belt pulled as tight as it goes. The waistband still slides down his hips. His cheekbones cut sharp shadows across his face. His eyes are yellow around the edges.
He hasn’t weighed himself.
Doesn’t want to know.
The man in the mirror is a stranger. Someone Sarah wouldn’t recognize. Someone Marcus doesn’t want to be.
He turns the light off.
Goes back to the couch.
It’s waiting.
***
The kid outside the liquor store has a neck tattoo and eyes that won’t focus.
“You looking?”
Marcus should say no. Should walk away. Should get in his car and go home.
But home is empty. And the whiskey isn’t working anymore. Isn’t enough.
“What do you have?”
The kid grins. Teeth missing on one side.
“What do you need?”
Marcus doesn’t know how to answer that. What he needs is Sarah. What he needs is to stop waking up. What he needs is for the way every breath scrapes going in to stop.
“Something stronger.”
The kid nods. Like this is normal. Like this makes sense.
Maybe it does.
***
The pills go down easier with whiskey.
Two at first. Then four. Then Marcus stops counting.
The world goes soft. Distant. The pain in his chest doesn’t disappear. It just moves farther back. Like watching someone else’s life fall apart.
He can breathe again.
Sort of.
***
The foreclosure notice comes.
Marcus reads it on the kitchen floor. The linoleum is sticky under his palms. When did he end up on the floor? He was standing a minute ago.
Or maybe yesterday.
Time doesn’t work right anymore.
Six months behind on the mortgage. Final notice. Eviction proceedings.
He should feel something. Panic. Fear. Shame.
But there’s nothing. Just the place where his breath keeps catching and the pills in his system and the way his hands won’t stop shaking even when he drinks.
Sarah would know what to do.
But Sarah is dead.
And Marcus is still here.
Why?
Why is he still here?
***
The roof access is through the spare bedroom.
The room that was going to be a nursery. Yellow paint samples still taped to the wall. Sarah’s handwriting on each one. Buttercup. Dandelion. Sunbeam.
Marcus climbs the ladder. His hands slip on the rungs. His head spins. The pills and whiskey make everything feel underwater.
Outside, the air is sharp. It cuts through his t-shirt. Hangs off his frame like a tarp over bones.
The edge of the roof is closer than he remembers. Three stories down. Maybe more with the slope of the yard.
His chest aches. Not the dull ache. The other one. The one that won’t stop. The one that makes every breath hurt.
Every breath hurts.
Maybe that’s the problem.
His heart keeps beating.
Even though Sarah’s doesn’t.
One step. That’s all it takes. One step and the pain stops. The shaking stops. The endless crushing weight of being alive stops.
Marcus closes his eyes.
Gravel bites into his bare heel.
He steps forward.
***
Beeping.
Steady. Mechanical. Relentless.
Marcus’s eyelids are concrete. Everything hurts. Not the familiar hurt. Real hurt. Bones and organs and skin screaming.
He forces his eyes open.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights buzzing. Tubes in his arm. Oxygen in his nose.
“Marcus.”
The voice breaks. He turns his head. Slow. Everything is slow and thick and wrong.
Robert sits in the chair beside the bed. Sarah’s father. His shirt is wrinkled. His eyes are red and swollen. His hands grip the bed rail like he’s afraid Marcus will disappear.
“Robert?”
“Yeah.” His voice cracks.
Marcus’s throat closes. His vision blurs. The tears come and he can’t stop them.
“I need help.”
The words come out broken. Raw. True.
Robert stands. Leans over the bed rail. His arms wrap around Marcus. Careful of the wires. Tight enough to feel real.
Marcus sobs into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over and over until the words don’t mean anything. Until they mean everything.
Robert holds him. Doesn’t let go. “I’m here.”
***
The church basement is too bright.
Folding chairs in a circle. Coffee that smells burnt. Twelve people Marcus doesn’t know.
His palms are sweating. His heart hammers. The door is right there. He could leave. Should leave.
Robert’s hand touches his shoulder. Steady. Solid.
“You got this.”
The woman at the front has kind eyes. Lines around her mouth like she’s smiled through hard things.
“Does anyone need a twenty-four-hour chip?”
Marcus’s mouth is dry. His hands shake.
Everyone is looking at him. They can see it. The failure. The wreckage. Everything he tried to drown.
He should stay sitting.
He should run.
He should—
His hand goes up. Halfway. Trembling.
“Hi.”
His voice cracks.
He swallows. Tries again.
“I’m Marcus.”
The words catch in his throat. Stick there.
Robert nods. Just once.
Marcus forces the words past his teeth.
“And I’m an alcoholic and addict.”
The room breaks into clapping. Strangers who understand.
“Welcome, Marcus.”
