Five holes in the wall, 

one whiskey bottle half-full,

two crimson bruises on her face, 

three broken plates,

four stitches, 

and 

0 Days Without Incident. 

I stare at the bottle, the amber liquid inside watches me with fiery little eyes, 

It’s taunting cheshire smile unnerves me to no end.

But here I sit, staring right back at it, hoping it doesn't take me too.

Sitting next to me is one of its victims, his once loving, caring, compassionate demeanor ripped away to reveal an angry interior; full of spite and venom and hurt.

In my clammy hands I hold a crystalline glass, my fingers rhythmically rubbing its smooth surface in a vain attempt

to calm my frayed nerves.

I can feel his stare boring into the side of my head, his flinty gray eyes challenging me to turn my head.

But I don't,

we both know what would follow if I did.

0 Days Without Incident