BRYAN BANKS

There were crickets in my head, crickets that would not keep shut until I slammed the mass of my head into the hard spikes of the wall behind my back.

It was always that way when there was no alcohol to quench the thirst, no wine to make me forget or drown out the groaning of lost memories, or the pangs of regret that filled my mind when I thought of what my life could have been.

So much that I could have done differently, but I went and ruined it all. And it was all that girl’s fault.

I clutched a shaky hand to the puckered gash...