|Iain Andrew Blackwood (steady_on) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2016-09-24 01:19:00
|Current music:||The Civil Wars - Dust to Dust|
|Entry tags:||iain blackwood|
Who: Iain Blackwood [Narrative]
What: The things we carry with us (are not always tangible)
When: Friday night
Where: His apartment
Warnings: Not a lot, discussions of past alcoholism
Iain unlocked the door of his apartment, slipping inside and locking it behind him again. He turned on the lamps as he moved further inside, banishing the late afternoon shadows as he went. He threw his coat over the back of the couch and toed off his shoes, sinking into a squashy armchair near the window. He liked to watch the city move about beneath him, and he needed to sit down for a spell.
If this had been five or six years ago, he would have been getting ready to hit the bars a little later. He'd loved going out on Friday and Saturday nights, throwing back shots and draining pitchers of beer until the wee hours. But that had all changed when Lachlan had gone into rehab. He'd needed to be there for his brother, and that reflex ran so deep that it was impossible to ignore.
He pushed himself up from the chair and drifted over to the kitchen. He needed to make some dinner to keep himself busy, or he'd inevitably end up thinking about Alexa again. Which always made him feel sad. He had loved her so much, and he would have broken himself in half to help her. Hell, he nearly had. But as his sponsor had told him, people had to want to get better. And so Iain had asked for the divorce.
He couldn't stay in their house, especially since he'd never be able to think of it as anything other than 'their house'. So he'd sold it and socked most of the money away, not really sure what to do with it. It didn't seem right to spend it, somehow.
The oven timer dinged, and Iain took his dinner out of the kitchen and back to his chair by the window. He didn't think about much as he ate, content instead to watch the crowds of people rushing to and fro. When he was finished, he put the plate in the sink and headed to his room.
He flicked on the light in his closet, and stretched onto his toes to retrieve a box he kept at the back of the top shelf. Despite being tucked away and out of sight, there was no dust on it. He lifted the lid and looked at the contents inside. Three books with the name 'A.M. Blackwood' on the spine. A photograph of him and Alexa on their wedding day. And his one-year sobriety chip.
The books showed gentle signs of wear, and the photograph was slightly faded, as though it had once hung somewhere that got a lot of sunlight. The chip winked at him in the light, it's surface smooth and free of scratches. Iain sighed, ran his finger along the edge of the metal disk, then returned the box to its shelf. He cast one more glance at it, before extinguishing the light and closing the door.