The Stubborn Season. Lauren B. Davis
But he could not escape the horrifying fact that even though he had made the promise to God that, should he be released from the prison unharmed, he would never touch whisky again, he had no doubt he would break that promise. In fact, even as he thought this very thing, his legs carried him off the couch, down the hall and toward the closet. A voice in his head told him that after all he’d been through, it was only natural to have a drink to settle his nerves. He knew this was nonsense, but was powerless over it. He was a moral coward. In the back of the closet he found what he was looking for. He sat cross-legged in the closet and drank, and drank, and drank some more. The salt from his tears mixed with the taste of the whisky. He gave himself up to the soft warm lull and numbness of the liquor. He surrendered to it completely and drank until he had shut out the visions in his head and he could sleep.
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