I drank constantly for days at a time. The beginning and end of these periods were nothing but an alcohol-induced blur. Anything to help dull the memories of my rugged past from resurfacing.
A drug and spirit-infused cocktail was the only requiem to dull the harsh reality to which I had become accustomed.
Pointless fights were the only way to ease the anger and inevitable darkness that were at a constant climax.
Days would morph into weeks and weeks into months, and within no time at all, I would find myself situated in an unfamiliar place, on an unrecognizable date, with a liver full of alcohol and a nostril dosed with cocaine.
Finding myself in a dark period of my life, I awoke in a back alley, my head edging ever closer to collapsing in on itself. The stench of damp rotten food and bloodstained surfaces escaped up the one cocaine-free nostril.
Blurred vision was a luxury I left for my right eye. The left, however, was abandoned into pure darkness. Nevertheless, there was something blissful about being suspended in a never-ending abyss of darkness that granted me a sense of tranquillity.
It was not until I arrived back home that I finally saw the full magnitude of the damage that had occurred to my body. As the vision in my right eye began to focus, I captured the vast, multifarious scars and open wounds that had been discarded throughout my body.
Most people may have spotted the similarities between this and the whipping of Christ before his inevitable crucifixion, but not me.
I was not interested in adding a messiah complex to the abundance of problems I already had congesting my list. In fact, I saw it as a contemporary piece of art. The slashes allowed for a rare insight into the artist's mind and soul.
The animalistic rage at the point of impact that the artist felt was displayed clearly through the first cuts that were created, indicated only through the depth and quickness of the gashes. As the cuts became shallower, I could see the illustrator's moral side unearthing, and the battle most people experience begin to undertake.
The chasms created across my body allowed for a pure, uncensored, untampered peak into his soul. Most people would only dream of knowing their husband, son or father on such a vulnerable, deep, personal level, like how I now knew this man.
I already knew that the man and I would probably never cross paths again, but this I was okay with. As now I always had a piece of him with me, etched into the very cells of my skin, to grow with me as I grew.
I did not find the pain euphoric – it still hurt like a bitch, but all glorious art pieces usually do. However, the insight it gave me, knowing that I now knew him better than anyone else in his life, that was euphoric.
Pulling myself away from these numbing states was anything but easy, constantly being tempted to relapse into the dark state of mind that I once had.
However, I knew that if I was to live up to 7-year-old David's promise, I had to distance myself from the things that gave me happiness and numbness. Week after week, I controlled my urges, keeping what lay dormant within me at bay.
On October 22, 2018, everything would start to change. No longer would I dread the little tormented boy, unable to attain valuable human connections. The entire day started and continued like any other Friday but with one subtle difference – tonight would be the first party I had ever had the luxury to attend.
Sitting in my room, I was building the courage and charisma that would be valuable tools for the night ahead. I finished getting ready, choosing ripped jeans and an oversized top as my best attire.
I was not unpopular, but I had never trusted people, which led me to distance myself from friends and relationships. Tonight, however, that would change.
To avoid looking desperate or overly punctual, I decided to arrive at the venue 30 minutes early, with a bottle of Smirnoff vodka submerged in my coat.
Surprisingly, everyone greeted me with open arms, and it seemed like they were pleased to see me attending this event. Nevertheless, I had been practicing interactions, and I felt I had mastered them.
It wasn't long before I found myself severely inebriated, and my vision and memory became hazy. Now looking back at the party, it feels like a slideshow in my mind, only playing the highlights, and even then, a few hours were still unaccounted for.
Multi-coloured lights irradiated throughout the lounge, drinks were excessively poured, and people performed sexual, ritualistic dancing.
Through the mist of it all, there she stood. The gleaming lights only enhanced her beauty, which was already stunning.
Her hair waved gracefully down the centre of her forehead, creating a perfect sense of symmetry, or at the very least alluding to it. Her ghost-like complexion may have turned others away, but for me, it was a clear indicator of her transparency, someone who could be depended on and trusted.
The empty colouring book of her arms resembled an artist's unfinished canvas; uncoloured masterpieces scattered her arms.
"Sarah," shaking and trembling, I mustered the courage to say, and from then on, my vision went black.
When I woke up the next morning, there she lay, sprawled across the covers, her naked body completely exposed. The only thing more powerful than her beauty was the paralyzing headache that had begun to encumber my head.
I was a self-proclaimed professional, drinking every day for no other reason than to forget the past.
I wasn't entirely sure what I had said or done that enticed her to invite me back to her place. Then it clicked. I was also naked.
I scoured the floor, searching for a condom or some sign of a mistake, but there were no clear indicators.
Surely, if we had sex, I would have been careful. Or was I now one of those frivolous men who slept with a plethora of women unprotected?
Panic rushed through my body as my heart rate elevated.
As Sarah awoke, her body turned and shifted closer to mine, and she smiled. She could clearly sense the unadulterated panic going on inside my head and set off to settle my nerves with a single touch.
Ensuring me that everything was fine, she climbed out of bed.
"Would you like some breakfast, babe?" she sweetly asked as her smile grew.
I wasn't entirely sure what was taking place, so I returned the smile and nodded out of confusion. Had I suddenly been bestowed magical powers that had led to this event? No.
It turned out I was a lot better at normal interactions than previously believed. Ten minutes had passed since Sarah had left the room.
Pulling myself from the restraints of the bed covers, as composed, and collected as I could be, I decided to go downstairs.
Greeted with a collage of good mornings, I made my way toward the dining table where breakfast lay before me, elegantly prepared by Sarah herself.
"So, do you remember how we began talking last night?" The words were as poisonous to me as the alcohol still coursing through my veins.
I was stumped, unsure of how to divert the conversation. I was backed into a conversational corner with no escape, other than to go through.
"Well, you were standing alone when I approached you and said hello," I spoke as confidently as the alcohol-induced trembling would allow.
"No, it was the other way around. You had been standing alone for quite some time, so I approached you to give you some company. How drunk were you?" she asked, delving deeper.
I was blown away by her reply, as I was certain the interaction had gone down the way I had remembered. I wasn't even drunk at the point of our first interaction of the evening. If I had mistaken those events, to which I was so adamant about, what else had I gotten wrong, and what other disasters had occurred within the darkness in my absence?
With Sarah's help, it all began to flow back, a stream of memories. Thankfully, someone had maintained a sober sense of mind all night.