The beginning of a story about a troubled man.
The music slowed down and the room became dark. A beam of light from the street lamp outside cut through the blackness that consumed the surrounding breadth. Dust briefly intersected the slight yellow glow, allowed only by a tear in the newspaper that coated the windows. The bottle repeatedly pressed against his lips. With each sip and swallow, his head became more and more buoyant with the assistance of the heavy thoughts tugging at his mind. He raised the bottle to his mouth once more, consuming the last ounce of the whiskey. The bottle dropped from his grip, tumbling down his body and striking the floor. He succeeded. For now, he was too numb to clutch the past he'd been clinging to for so long.
The sun ascended and David's body still lie in the same corner he lost consciousness in. Awoken by his loudly set nine a.m. alarm on his cell phone, with his head pounding, and guts churning, he stood to his feet in a daze, still feeling the poison left in his system from the night before. He gazes around the room, the prostitute that accompanied him the previous evening had vanished, his clothes lie scattered on the floor. The room had the aroma of liquor and microwavable fish-sticks.