Sentiment

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"I don't consider myself a pessimist. I think a pessimist is someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin." -Leonard Cohen

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The funeral was scarcely attended; the few who came did not cry, did not mourn, they simply were there.

Eric was there. His questionable feeling of obligation to the now deceased Patrick had led him to the funeral home that day. He and Patrick had met during an alcoholic's anonymous meeting the year prior. They had bonded over their commonalities, the principle being their abusive addiction.

Eric had long since stopped attending those meetings. He had always thought about calling Patrick, but couldn't think of what to do with another guy besides get a drink. And he was working off the assumption that Patrick was still in the program.

"Surprised" is much too strong of a word to describe Eric's reaction to the news that Patrick had caused a fatal collision. Two dead, Patrick and a seventeen-year-old girl, she had been heading home for dinner, a special congratulations dinner, she had just passed her driver's license test. The average citizen would mourn the loss of this girl more than even Patrick's closest "friends" would mourn him. Eric didn't know it, but he was Patrick's closest friend.

Eric left the funeral home contemplating a great many things. The funeral had affected him more than he thought it would, he didn't expect to be happy obviously, but he had gone in feeling apathetic to whole scenario. Something about the funeral had made him care, whether it was the lacklustre eulogy, or the lack of attendance, Eric began to feel he had more of a role in Patrick's downward spiral than he ever would have considered. Eric needed a drink. 

"Just one" quickly became "just one more." Within the hour, Eric's inebriation was complete. The bartender cut him off and sent him on his way. Lucky for everyone, Eric didn't drive to the funeral, he was supposed to call his wife when it ended. Calling her now was most certainly one of Eric's least intelligent ideas, she would not be impressed. 

After that call Eric did not get a ride home, nor did he have a wife. She told him that she just could not be around such a self-destructive person, that she was sorry, and that he needed serious help. Eric called her a "bitch." 

Eric stumbled home stopping at two different liquor stores, the first refused to serve him, the second asked if he wanted anything else. His home was empty. Normally Eric would've passed out on the couch, purposely avoiding his wife, but as he was alone he slept in the master bedroom. He did however enjoy his habitual post-alcohol cigarette. 

That night, whilst Eric slept, a series of events occurred that dramatically changed Eric's life. His still smouldering cigarette fell from his lips and rolled off the bed. The cigarette landed in a trash bin, normally empty, but on this night it was nearly filled to the brim with tissues, Eric's wife took the break-up much harder than Eric. The fire quickly spread throughout the bedroom. A startled Eric awoke, nearly trapped, but he quickly ran from his room, from his house, leaving behind the knick-knacks and sentimental items that he once looked at with such superficial affection he almost believed them to be important. The only item Eric managed to grab on his way out was his jacket, it was leather and very nice.

As Eric stood in his front lawn, still quite drunk, watching his house burn to the ground, he placed his hands in his jacket pockets hoping to find either a flask or another cigarette. What he found instead was a note and a pamphlet. The note, from his wife, simply expressed her sincere hope for Eric, it was quite sweet. The pamphlet was for a rehab centre just outside town. 

It would be about four months later, but Eric would end up at that rehab centre. He lost his job a few weeks after the fire. His boss was a nice guy, but could only put up with so much of Eric's neglect of his work. Eric's lowest moment was when he awoke one morning in his car somewhere out in the countryside. He had little memory of the night before, he could only assume he had driven himself out there. His heart sank, he thought about Patrick, he thought about that nice girl, in that moment he cried more than he had in the lifetime leading up to it. 

Eric composed himself and tried to start his car. It didn't start, not surprising as regular maintenance hadn't been a priority. Eric, frustrated, depressed, alone, walked across the street to the only building around for miles. The sign out front read "A New Beginning," it was the rehab centre Eric's wife recommended. "This is it, a new beginning," Eric thought to himself as he checked in, determined to change. A nice sentiment, to say the least.