text: Looking out the window into the night, I see the empty sky. The stars have forgotten to come out tonight, and it leaves the blackness wanting to have that little bit of light that it will never get. I decide that 10 p.m. is as good as ever to begin. I roll Hamilton, shove him into my nostril, and inhale the long white line. Pain, for a moment, and then bliss. My head feels light and I sit up, eyes wide. I think I am in my room, but the walls are floating up and out of sight to reveal an endless black chasm. My bed stays under me, and I feel like I too am floating, but only the walls look like they are gone. The fuzzy carpet tickles my feet, until it melts away into a liquid that pours like a beige waterfall. Out of the blackness, a face flies at me with pure white light for eyes, screaming. I scream in response until I notice it is my own face attacking me. It hits me and with a rush of terror, I fall back, but my bed has shattered into millions of tiny shards. I fall, never landing, and never ending. I float through happy times that make me glad I was sober. The home run when I was fifteen; the clock I made in shop class; the birth of my first child. Then I crash through the sad times, the ones that make me give up my winning streak. The time I got mad and punched the referee who said I was cheating; when my father hit me for getting a B on my shop project; the death of my first child. I see his eyes, full of hope and joy for a brief moment, until I’m thrust into the future. His eyes, dull and full of wasted dreams. A hand on my shoulder conveys grief. “He looks nice in a suit.” “The colour really compliments the mahogany.” He wears his favorite baseball cap to cover his scar from where the car hit him. This seems unfamiliar to me. The image of my son is pierced by a blinding light, and I hear a horn honk. It is 7 in the morning, and I am naked in the middle of the freeway. I am standing there, blank expression, nose bleeding. I snap back to reality, and see my car. Great, I drove last night. I can’t believe myself. I walk over to the car and see a dent in the front, with a red spatter. The windshield is cracked. I get in and drive home. As I pull up, I see red and blue flashing lights. The sirens pierce my ears, even from inside the car. I can’t get into my driveway; there are police cars and an ambulance in the way. I stop next to my driveway, and get out of the car. I hear crying; my wife’s. The last thing I see before I feel the cold metal rings around my wrists is my son lying on the pavement, backpack on, ready for his first day at school, head split at the top, blood leaking out and into the gutter at the end of the driveway, and my wife holding his hand screaming at me. From behind me, I hear “You have the right to remain silent.