Chapter 8

Alastair O’Leary sat at the bar of a grimy pub, his glass clenched tightly in his sweaty fist. He couldn’t stand when that brat disobeyed him. How dare he think that he had any authority over his own life when the man did everything for him? Abbott had never had to work for anything- O’Leary just gave it to him. When the boy needed clothes, he had provided them. He brought him food almost every night- sometimes he forgot, especially when he had a little to drink, but everyone makes mistakes.

He downed another glass in the heat of his anger, head thrown back. He could feel the liquor burning its way down his throat, but he relished in the heat. It was the only reliable force in his life anymore. While he couldn’t count on business being steady, or the boy providing accurate prophecies, he always knew that he could count on his old friend- alcohol. He took delight in the way that it seemed to cause his problems to fade, and he even loved the rush he would get as he pulled back his fist to hit the boy, the influence of the drink in his bloodstream whispering to him to continue, to beat him until he couldn’t feel any pain at all. Something in him always stopped him though, whether from the loss of business it would cause, or some strange gleam of empathy buried deep inside him. Whatever it was, it kept O’Leary from killing the boy altogether, but he vowed that next time, he wouldn’t let it control him. If the boy needed to be punished, he was going to punish him, however extreme it may be.

He slammed the glass down onto the grubby countertop with a huff, gesturing to the bartender impatiently. The man scurried over and took the glass in one hand, replacing it with a full one with the other. Alastair wasn’t quite sure what number this was- four? Five, maybe- but he didn’t care. As long as it kept his thoughts from flowing quite so freely, he would do anything.

He drank to forget. He drank so he didn’t have to remember all that had happened to him in his life. He drank to forget his father towering over him, the stench of alcohol radiating off of him. He drank to forget nursing the bruises that covered him during his entire childhood. He drank to forget his father standing over the body of his mother on the floor after he had come home through the door to find his wife with another man, a man that worked down the street, a man who Alastair had always been told was just his mother’s friend. He drank to forget how his father had pulled out his shotgun from the cabinet in the front and marched into the living room, the room in which he had caused the majority of Alastair’s pain. He drank to forget how his mother had jumped up in a panic, fear in her eyes apparent as she pushed the other man behind her. He drank to forget how the other man had fled in the blink of an eye, leaving faster than he had snuck into their lives. He drank to forget how his father, without the other man to use as a target, had turned his aggression onto his mother, screaming obscenities as she cowered in the corner. He drank to forget the screams he had heard rip through the house as her husband turned the gun on her, and to forget the gunshot that followed. He drank to forget how his father had kicked the corpse of his mother laying on the floor before stomping out of the door into the forest, where a second gunshot soon screamed out. He drank to forget how his parents’ bodies had looked, sprawled on the ground, a growing halo of blood surrounding them, seeming almost decorative. He drank to forget how at the ripe old age of twelve, he had gone from having two parents to none, all within the span of a single day.

He drank to forget how the neighbors had come by after hearing the commotion, and seeing Alastair left all alone, taken him from his home. He drank to forget how those same neighbors, who he thought he would finally have a home with, had shipped him off to an apprenticeship with a wizard. He drank to forget how the wizard had treated him like a son for once in his life, and while he taught him many things that Alastair would use later in his career, what touched Alastair the most was that the man truly cared about him. He drank to forget how the man had taken him into his home, only to leave him less than four years later. He drank to forget how the doctors told him that the man had passed in his sleep, of some malady related to his heart. He drank to forget how he had slowly descended into madness that day, tearing through every book in the wizard’s study in the hopes of finding something, anything, to bring him back. He drank to forget how the doctors had put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and told him that the man wasn’t coming back. He drank to forget the day he began to become his father: upon hearing this news, Alastair had screamed out loud, all his sorrows and anger leaving him in a single burst of power that immediately incinerated everything within a twenty foot radius, including the doctors. He drank to forget how he was left untouched by the flames.

He drank to forget how the wizard had left his house to Alastair. He drank to forget how, feeling how empty the house was, he turned the house into the Empyrium he ran today. He drank to forget the somewhat happy times he had in the store before it became such a pressure. He drank to forget the woman that had come into the store one morning and caught his eye. He drank to forget how they had flirted and eventually started courting each other. He drank to forget how they had gotten married, and she moved into the Empyrium, helping to run the shoppe by his side. He drank to forget the happiest days of his life.

He drank to forget how his love had become pregnant. He drank to forget worrying over the littlest things, like what the baby’s name should be. He drank to forget worrying over the bigger things, like how his wife had fallen gravely ill before the baby was due. He drank to forget clutching on to her hand as she cried out, contractions rocking her body as she heaved. He drank to forget how his son, his pride and joy, hadn’t even had a minute of life out of the womb. He drank to forget the blood, all the blood that poured out of his wife’s body as she lay still, utterly still. He drank to forget all the bodies he had lost, surrounded by pools of blood. He drank to forget the tombstones that sat across the Empyrium in the graveyard, a larger one with an angel carved into it, next to a tiny, imperfect one, not even graced by a name. He drank to forget how they could lie together, yet so far apart from where he was.

He drank to forget how the next twenty years had been a blur, one day after the next, running the shop over and over again- opening up and closing, opening and closing, over and over and over to the point of insanity. He drank to forget the night his life changed, the night he felt a strange summoning sensation forming in the bottom of his stomach. He drank to forget how the small infant had been left on his doorstep, and how for a small moment, he thought he could start his life over again. He drank to forget how he had immediately decided against it, as nothing could replace what he had already lost. He drank to forget how broken his life was.

He drank to forget the times when he hadn’t been so cruel to the boy. He drank to forget the look on the boy’s face the first time he had drunk too much, the first time he had thrown the boy to the ground and kicked him across the floor, bringing back memories of his father's last moments. He drank to forget the many times he had lost control since then. He drank to forget how he had turned into the spitting image of his father.

He drank to forget how he hated everything that he had become. He drank to forget the blackness that lived inside of him, eating away at him. He drank to forget how to live.

He drank to forget that he wanted to die.