It was the first time I killed a man.

Almost ritualistic, like when dad hands you your first beer. It doesn’t taste good. It’s bitter. You vomit a bit in the back of your mouth. But give it time and it can be a crippling addiction.

My father was an alcoholic. He never knew how to say “just one more” and then hold himself to that. How could he? It fed his soul. Eventually it was too much for my mother. So she left. Shortly after she took me too. But you can’t erase human memory. Not without destroying who they are.

In the blink of an eye, one became a thousand, and now I sit in the swirling pools of blood that my mind recalls around me.

I think, perhaps, I have ceased to BE in any normal sense. My soul bore the pain of every death, and I have died a thousand times.