Jonathan's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and wide, staring at the water-stained ceiling of his small, cluttered bedroom. The remnants of a nightmare clung to his consciousness as he took a deep breath, trying to shake off the haunting voices that echoed in his mind.
"You will always be nothing, Jonathan," his mother's harsh tone reverberated. Even after all these years, her words still cut deep, reopening old wounds.
"These children, you will never see again," his ex-wife's stern voice followed. The pain of losing custody of his kids was a constant ache in his chest.
A male friend's sad words cut through: "Man, I trusted you." Another relationship ruined by his poor choices and inability to change.
As Jonathan rolled to his side, he recalled his therapist's accented advice: "You now have the tools to make positive change. But... you have to use them." Dr. Ramirez had been working with him for months, but Jonathan struggled to put her guidance into practice.
Amidst the cacophony of negative voices, a woman's loving words stood out: "I believe in you." Sarah. The one bright spot in his life lately. Her unwavering support both comforted and terrified him. He didn't want to let her down too.
With a groan, Jonathan threw off his covers and struggled to get out of bed, his head pounding from last night's drinking. He stumbled into the kitchen, a testament to his disheveled life with unwashed dishes piled high in the sink and empty beer bottles littering every surface. The acrid smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air.
Opening the refrigerator, he grabbed a carton of orange juice and took a swig, only to recoil in disgust at the sour taste. As he felt around the appliance, he realized nothing was cold. The compressor had died again.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, slamming the juice carton on the counter. This was the third time in as many months the ancient fridge had broken down. He couldn't afford to keep calling a repairman or buy a new one.
In a fit of frustration, Jonathan yanked the refrigerator from the wall, nearly pulling a muscle in the process. Minutes later, he had removed its back panel, parts scattered around him on the grimy linoleum floor. An open tool carrier sat beside him as he reached into the refrigerator's innards.
"There you are," he said, pulling out a frayed belt and tossing it into the carrier. He added a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter to his collection. Might as well pick up a new pack while he was out getting the replacement part.
Jonathan shuffled to the bathroom, wincing at his haggard reflection in the mirror. Dark circles ringed his bloodshot eyes, and several days' worth of stubble covered his jaw. He splashed some cold water on his face and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.
"Get it together, man," he muttered to himself. But the words rang hollow, as they always did. With a sigh, he threw on some wrinkled clothes from the laundry pile on his bedroom floor and headed out.