And I wanna feel something again
I just wanna feel something again
How's it go again?




Week One



The first week was hard. He had expected it to be rough but he hadn’t expected how rough.

He’d intentionally used the Click List option when it came to groceries. Going into a store was too much pressure, there were too many temptations when it came to losing control and caving in. Just a couple of malt beverages, they didn’t even count as the hard stuff, right? Or even a nice wine - wine always went well with a good meal, right?

s**t, no, no - no. He wasn’t falling off the wagon, he was stronger than this.

Driving back, he nearly twisted the wheel a little too far when the familiar sign of the liquor store passed by. His heart jumped as he swerved back into his lane and while he took a deep breath, his thoughts lingered on the store. He’d guess the cashier might be curious as to where he’d gone - a faithful regular who visited weekly. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was just another face in the crowd that came in and did the same thing as everyone else. It wasn’t as if he’d purchased a great deal of the stuff each week, right?

Right?

When the trembles started setting in mid-week, he found himself struggling to write anything by hand. It was okay, it was simply nerves, added in with the occasional headache to plague his poor handsome head. Nothing some migraine pills couldn’t help. He simply switched to using the laptop instead for the time being, letting his quivering fingers search and punch down on the keys while he did his damndest to avoid even looking at them.

He called Kavinsky over when he'd heard the carolers and their creepy singing, near the tail end of the week. The man had heard them too, relieving him of the worry that he was imagining other things happening.

A bitter relief, in the end.

Sleep didn’t come easy. He went for walks in the evening, tried to use fresh air as an excuse to clear his mind but soon enough the snow prevented him from going out without a purpose.

Maybe this was harder than he'd initially counted on.


Week Two



He didn’t bother going out for groceries. Uber Eats worked.

It was funny, even getting to know a couple of the runners for it. Bunch of college students, mostly, probably around Kavinsky’s age. Shame the kid didn’t have a car, he could probably make a mint this time of year on tips by delivering food like this. Then again, he didn’t quite have the personality that some of these chipper asskissers did.

But hey, he appreciated a good honest person, once in a while.

Speaking of honesty - his partner had left him numerous messages, text and voice, one after another until he’d finally picked up. Going on week two without showing up. It was okay, it was the holiday season. Most folks weren't interested in writing their Wills when they were spending their time (and money) on their grandkids. Couple of middle classers with DUIs looking for better-than-public-defenders to represent their cases, but Eugene had managed, along with their intern.

It was fine. He’d be back soon, right?
Yeah, sure.
Right.

Invitations came from several clients for dinner parties and the idea was almost as tempting as the open bars he knew that would be offered there. He could probably mingle, make a few new clients even at the fancy soirees they offered. Come away with a few extra names, get a nice dinner without paying out out of the pity cut he got from his business partner.

Hands trembled as he put on his suit in front of the mirror, the man keeping a safe distance from it now after the whole mishap adventure he’d been forced to endure. The man who stared back at him looked tired. Weary, even. When he noticed his fingers trembling as he snapped up his cufflink, he decided it was better to stay home, after all.

So instead, he called his mother.

“Merry Christmas,” he'd said with all the cheer he could muster.

“I saw your new advertisement on the television.”

His heart did a small leap as the older voice pierced through the phone static. Right, the holiday one. He forgot they were running it.

“Did you like it? Did Dad see?”

“Robert, are you sure that's the impression you want to leave with people of yourself?” Her voice was soft. It was always soft, always made the blows more tolerable to stomach. “Do you need money? Maybe I could get the name of the man your father uses?”

Deep breath.

“That's okay, Mom. Can I speak with him? With Dad?”

Pause. He almost thought the line had gone dead, until the soft voice broke the silence.

“He wishes you a happy holiday too, sweetheart. I need to go - have a blessed one, Robbie.”

Click.

He spent Christmas alone, eating leftover chinese takeout.



Week Three



The gnawing was growing inside of him, knotted up in the pit of his stomach like a heavy weight that wouldn’t go away.

He ordered things, twice for the week? Maybe it was three - he couldn’t remember. Either way, there seemed to be too many leftovers and not enough motivation or desire to eat any of them. He nibbled here and there but for the most part, he remained cocooned in bed.

Bed, he found, was much easier to deal with than most of the other obstacles the world tried to place in front of him. Work was delivered - or as much of it that could be - by the intern with a concerned visit sprinkled in now and again by his partner.

Even Kavinsky dropped by to check on him. Heh.

It would have been more humorous, had he found himself in the mood for it. But the gnawing hunger, the demand, wouldn’t go away. Only sleep would drown its growling, so he slept.

And he slept.

The New Year was welcomed in by sleep and copious amounts of it.


(WC: 1,011)