He could walk no further, absolutely not. He attempted to squat down but his body acted before he could think and instantly he collapsed in front of the turquoise house screaming at him for defiling it’s lawn. He yelled at the house to shut it up, but it listened with anxiety.

His bottle of Jose Cuervo fell from his hands as his eyes cringed with sorrow. The few remnants of the bottle leaked onto the sidewalk. He cocked his head in intrigue at the figures that the cracks in the sidewalk formed. He saw his mother dancing with a mariachi, his daughter right before her quinceñera, and then he saw all of his beer seep down into those cracks, along with his dignity.

How foolish he felt to be lying in front of an unknown house, knowing he couldn’t stand up or articulate himself in any way. The alcohol had gotten the best of him this time. He thought for an instant, then realized he didn’t care much. He’d lived his life, and anything he did now didn’t matter. Nothing did, really. What mattered was nothing he had control of.

A car passed by, it’s lights on bright. He yelled. He shouted as loud as he could to try to get someone to help him. Then he realized the alcohol disallowed him to use his mouth as well as he needed. The most he made was a low grumbling, but he thought that that might have came from his stomach. Using his right hand, he grabbed hold of a miniature pine tree sprouting from the lawn less than a yard away from his torso. He pulled himself towards the house.

How long would he lie here, he eventually thought. He would probably wake up to a sidewalk stained with his vomit, and possibly a crowd gathering around him. As long as he found shelter under the pine, he would be all right.

About fifteen minutes later, he woke up to the grip of two police officers. They were both Caucasian, and each held an arm of his. Of course, he didn’t feel any of this. They were trying to talk to him in English, which he also didn’t understand. So he nodded.

He was filled with a feeling of shame. He knew he wouldn’t let himself go this way, although he also knew it would happen again. From the moment he picked up his first bottle of alcohol, he knew the fate it’d encompass. Alcohol was his drug. He used it to escape. He used it when he was sad to dilute the sadness and make him happy. He used it when he was happy to celebrate. He used it as an excuse. He used it as a sin.

The policemen had picked up a teenager who spoke some Spanish, but his Spanish was slurred, so it didn’t matter. He laid his head down in humiliation. A tear began to form in his right eye. It trickled down his cheek, riddled with dirt, and fell onto the floor. A tear formed by alcohol.

He used alcohol to get a hold of his life, and realized that now, alcohol had gotten a hold onto him.