Two
After a fifth of whisky, Malcolm’s blood was swimming. Or maybe that was his head. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he definitely recognized the clear attraction he felt to this numbing sensation. The pain that was his constant companion had gone quiet. Even through the haze of alcohol, he understood that this was how he’d fallen into the bottle all those years ago. Trying to escape down the rabbit hole. Through the looking glass. Or something.
He eyed his empty glass and picked up the bottle to pour another. When only a single drop rolled out, he closed one eye and squinted into the narrow neck, as if that would explain what had happened to the whisky. Neither the glass nor the bottle was refilling itself. Before he could decide what to do about that, someone knocked on the door.
Malco
