The phone rings
at 3 am.
followed by a half-awake, "Hello?",
a muffled conversation,
and knuckles barely making contact with
my door.
She can't bring herself to wake me up
from a quiet sleep and the daydream that has been my life.
But I'm already awake.
And deep down I already know.

Fast forward an hour later.
I hear the out of rhythm steps
of your boots making their way up the stairs
and finally into the house.
We meet in the kitchen.
The wall of Smirnoff and beer
greets me like an overenthusiastic child.
Then I see your body,
a shape I almost don’t recognize;
your eyes look right past me
like you are talking to someone in the next room.
“I don’t know what will happen” you said,
as mom explained to me what was going on.
“I don’t know what will happen” you said
as you leaned on me like a crutch on our way to your bedroom.
“I don’t know what will happen” you said
when I left you to sort this out,
to put the pieces back together,
to sober up.
I crawled back under the covers,
painfully aware the ache that
has found its way to the pit of my stomach.

I hear another knock on my door,
not so gentle this time.
The door opens and I'm
greeted by a wobbly hand
wrapped around the barrel of a gun.
“I don’t know what will happen” you say,
as you place the gun in my hand.

I want to drop to the ground;
to curl into a ball and
let my tears lull me to sleep,
Only to wake up tomorrow
and have this all be a dream.
But this moment is as solid, and real
As the gun now under my pillow.
My heart races as it tries to outrun
someone else’s demons.
I don’t sleep that night.