He sat at the edge of his seat, at the brink of his existence more like, a lone, hunched figure, withdrawn into his self as much as one possibly can. His state of mind was very much reflected in his physical state; he didn’t like being with people that much anymore…
He carelessly held an empty bottle of alcohol in his hand, staring at the lingering dregs of the clear liquid, perhaps wondering if that amount was enough to drown in…. The “whites” of his eyes had gradually yellowed, much like the over-used keys of a moldy, worn-out piano. His eyes had generally acquired the kind of glassiness typical of cold, placid, life-less lakes. The deflated, grey bags under his eyes were evidence to the fact that he did not get much sleep in the previous night, or countless others before, for that matter. The skin on his face was sallow, yet as taut as a pair of lycras that had been stretched a little too much.
Somewhere down the street, someone was trying to play an old Led Zeppelin record. The distant crooning managed to pierce through his thoughts, making him jolt out of his abysmal misery. His lips creased into a faint smile; he remembered that song, it was her favorite…But thinking about her was painful, so he dismissed her into a forgotten portion of his memory and directed his attention towards the crumpled, unlit cigarette in his other hand, dropped the glass bottle onto a pile already at his feet, and fumbled for a matchbox somewhere inside his frayed clothes’ pockets. It was amazing, how, even in that condition, he was able to recall her at all, so he hastily tried to make her memory go away. Having found none on him, he muttered something angrily, clumsily stood up and kicked the heap of the foul-smelling bottles with all the force his mind could muster at that bare minimum level of consciousness, or its lack thereof. Stumbling over his own feet, he fell heavily on his face and could not get up. He was passed out.
Could he be a changed man when he wakes up?