Mixing his drinks, I’d slip in holy water. Still the demons took him. Strange, to feel love and hate in equal measures.
Once, I asked if he believed in evil.
“Absolutely” he slurred, “Look in the bottom of a bottle! You’ll find your proof!”
After he passed, l found he had filled a hundred hidden notebooks. Page upon page of poems, lyrics, prayers to petition God.
For someone who drank themselves to death, I never once guessed he had such a thirst for life.