Still pacing, the scream from the last flash of visceral-vision still lingering, Ed is about to reach for the bottle of scotch that promises to wet his suddenly dry throat, which feels like he's been the one screaming. The next vision is like a lightning strike--hitting so close to home that the room around him seems to sizzle with electric recognition.
Ella.. and a man he doesn't know. A bottle. And sadness.
Damaged fingers curl in furious realization around the neck of a different bottle. This time the scream is Ed's as the bottle hurtles across the room and shatters against the wall, glass and amber-colored-oblivion draining down to soak the boxes of abandoned sheet music that line the floor beneath the wreckage.