Stove

As the liquor slithered lazily into his blood, his mind began to open.
Slowly... creaking like a rusty ancient bear trap.
"Shoulda worked harder and bought her a new stove" he thought.
Then brushed the stray observation away with a swipe of his hand through thinning hair.
"Shoulda done a lot of things there's no fucking point now."
Kicking a cupboard in with a booted foot, he finishes his glass and pours another.
Just to take the edge off he reassures himself.
And then another.
This one goes down easier, swallowing it with a slice of guilt and a twist of bitter.
His hand shakes as he yanks open the fridge.
Muttering he glances at the smiling snapshots of his wife and son splattered like spaghetti sauce all over the freezer door.
Dropping the ice tray he stoops to pick up the stray cubes skating and streaking across the filthy linoleum.
Pouring his sixth vodka, propped up agains the reproachful stove, he takes in the contrast of the bright smiling faces in the photos, and the neglected kitchen.
This kitchen was her pride and joy.
Scavenging through the fridge and pantry like a frantic squirrel, alas he finds no more poison.
Raising his hand and grinning manically at his reflection in the stove door, he says
"Hi, my name is Frank and I'm an alcoholic."
Then falling sideways he finally sleeps the sleep of a drunkard only to be haunted by the screams of his wife and boy.
Sirens, twisted metal, flashing lights.