Drink

 The smell of the open bottle was lingering from the table. He had never been all that much of a drinker before, however he has found that the alcohol appeared to be growing stronger as he was growing weaker. "I'll never become that man" He had always said in his mind, while passing down judgment on those who struggled with the very issues he was facing now.  The seconds slowly ticked away from the clock he had hanging on the far wall as he glared at the dark brown bottle. He caught the reflection of his fixed gaze on the glass. His eyes stared into what he saw as a stranger, what he didn't want to believe was himself, a reflection of what he has become. He took a long deep breath and reached for a glass. It was a cold night, like many other nights. He was alone that night like most other nights. Lately, however, He was feeling quite more cold and alone than usual. With the pain of feeling nothing stinging strong, he poured the whiskey. He watched as each splash and drop washed over the silvery white polish of the ice. The drink wasn't judgmental. It didn't stare at him with overwhelming disapproval at his wasting potential. It didn't ask him for money or demand unrealistic expectations of him. In many ways, he felt that it was a better friend than half the friends he's known in his days. In an attempt to dull the awareness, the glass was tipped. Each ounce that poured past his lips was a problem without a solution washing away. Each sip carried a burden away.