“Why?” The word knifes me. A tear escapes and he says, “Because I can. Because when I was eleven-years-old and tasted my first drop of whiskey, I thought it’d bring me closer to my father. Because I felt empowered.” He touches his chest. “Because I never hit anyone. I never drove. I never lost a fucking job or lost any friends that mattered. Because whenever I drank, I didn’t think I was hurting anyone but me.” He takes a shallow breath and rubs a shaky hand through his hair. “That is, until last night. Or maybe for the past two months. Or forever. I don’t know anymore.”
