His Whiskey

"His Whiskey"

He likes his whiskey.

He longs for the strong taste that takes him away from his life, giving him a place to get away.

Sometimes in the middle of night, he wakes in a cold sweat. Sometimes in the middle of the night, those dreams drift into his thoughts. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he feels completely alone except for the glass clamped in his greedy hand.

He likes his whiskey.

He longs for the strong taste that takes him away from his life, giving him a place to get away.

He can drink until the end of time, and the idea doesn't sound like such a bad thing to him.

He remembers how it used to be, back when he was only just a child. Going to school, attending classes, and the late evenings sitting in the common room by the glowing fire.

But then he always turns to think about after school, and he resorts back to his whiskey to cure his hell of a life.

He likes his whiskey.

He longs for the strong taste that takes him away from his life, giving him a place to get away.

His name is like a curse word now to the wizarding world. Only the brave speak it for a good show of others gasping and heads spinning in the speaker's direction.

It's all over- the war, and he lost. The blasted burn on his arm made him loose. The burn he'd have since seventeen years of age. The burn that became his undoing.

He likes his whiskey.

He longs for the strong taste that takes him away from his life, giving him a place to get away.

He plans his funeral every evening, almost as a tradition. Every day once he comes home, slides into his recliner, and reviews his sketchpad. Then, once he decides he's satisfied but knows he really isn't, he throws the sketch pad aside and takes just one more drink, and then after the next last drink he swears the that this is the end.

And he spends the rest of the night staring out his window at the blanket of the lights that glow, of people before his eyes that have a will to live. And he spends the rest of the night finishing that last drink.

Before he knows it, it's the next morning, and he's passed out on the floor, his glass still clutched tightly in his greedy hand.

He likes his whiskey.

He longs for the strong taste that takes him away from his life, giving him a place to get away.

In anger, he chucks the glass against the wall, wondering why he couldn't just finish that last drink, and promising himself that that night there will be a last drink. And he leaves for work.

But there never is. His last drink will come as soon as his last breath escapes his lips and as he's longing that he had his whiskey.

The damn mark on his arm. That's what did that. That's what ruined his life. That's what caused him to be doomed to his last drinks.

Then one night, he returns from work, just as always, pours himself a drink, and resumes his normal place in his recliner, viewing his sketch pad.

He wants to be buried below a tree, at the graveyard on 24^th street, right by the liquor store.

Downing his first glass, he goes to make another, swearing that this really will be the last drink.

Except this time, he never makes it to the bar. His body is on the floor in one swift movement, and that glass is still gripped tightly in his greedy hand.

And he feels his last breathes come. He brings the glass to his lips, licking up the last bit of whiskey left.

This is his last drink.

Draco likes his whiskey.

Draco longs for the strong taste that takes him away from his life, giving him a chance to get away.

The end of "His Whiskey"

A/N Just a short little fic that someone over at fanfiction.net inspired me to write. Please review and let me know what you think- if you liked it or if it stunk.

-Karen