Her fault. It was all her fault, and she could never fix it. She could never go back and apologize, no amount of crying for him would never make it better. Sadness became just another word for daily life. Her life continued everyday, but his would never see another sunrise.

After a lifetime of dedication and work for her, he came home one night to her sin. The other man simply looked out from beneath the covers and snickered, as though he was inferior. As if she was a game, and he had lost. Pain wrenched at his insides; he knew she would never be only his ever again.

Soon the whiskey took over. He would call her name in his sleep, only to crack open bloodshot eyes for another swig at the bottle. After some time, her name was nothing more than a numbing sound. Never again would it have the same melodic windchime tone as he laughed it out. Names are only labels, he would tell himself. Names mean nothing.

Soon her name was the name for his whiskey. It wasn’t just a numb feeling anymore. He couldn’t remember her name; he couldn’t remember the last time he had been out of bed. Lost his job, lost his love for life. The bloodshot eyes grew evermore unseeing, evermore destined for the bottle.

She never came around to visit. The hope, the last candle flicker in the wind of hope, was extinguished. He heard somewhere that she might have another boyfriend. He heard she might be a professional skydiver. For all he knew, she had moved to New York to start all over again. It’s difficult to verify things when your body feels the savage burn for more whiskey, and you can’t leave the bed.

Never enough. It was never enough to get her off his mind. The icefire liquid was never enough to give him the strength to get up. They found him in the afternoon.

He had left something, a letter. Written in a crazed, saddened hand, it professed his true love for her. His undying love would continue until they met again in heaven, no matter what she had done to him. But the whiskey was too much, and he would meet his maker far too soon.

That accursed scrap of paper haunted her thoughts every hour of every day. She never could get it off her mind, and she could never stop his name from circling her skull. It was as though he was unsatisfied with the ending, and was trying to rewrite the story. She turned to the whiskey a couple nights a week to help soothe the agony of his loss. For no matter what anyone else believed, she blamed herself. She knew that it was her fault, and that there was no going back.

No one ever understood how much she blamed her own treason against him, how one night of entertainment turned into a lifetime of guilt, blame, and misery.

Soon the bottle became the daily routine. She had never had another boyfriend, always too saddened to turn to another after what she had done to him. The bottle was the crutch, keeping her supported everyday. Without it, the strength was gone.

The strength ended. Calling his name no longer numbed her, just brought yet another inundation of tears to soak her pillow.

Never enough. It was never enough to get him off her mind. The icefire liquid was never enough to give her the strength to get up. They found her in the afternoon.