A Cliché

He turned his back to the bottles on the table. It had been years he had a slip in his well-planned AA program, but now, with all that had happened, the thought of a drink seemed more than tempting. To guzzle down some gin, pure, of course or whiskey, not the cheap brands, but a nice glass of Chevis Regal on the rocks was the way to salvation now. He opened the first bottle and drank. Was it vodka, cheap vodka? He did not care. All he wanted was to repress the image of his wife and the man on top of her. But the alcohol did not repress the image.

Instead, it fuelled the hate that was slowly building inside of him, growing stronger and stronger by every gulp he took from the bottle. His wife was not beautiful anymore. She was an ugly, toothless hag with black eye-sockets like the witches in gothic fairy-tales, grinning, no, fucking CACKLING to her new boy that he is better than her husband ever will be. For years, he had tried to sober up, for HER sake, damn it, and this was how she returned the favor? And then it came to him. A black, sinister thought popped up in his head, pushing the last of the rationale aside. He knew what he had to do. He grabbed the kitchen knife from the table, smiled and moved the blade toward his wrists.

Clichés happen. They truly do.