Everything you stand for is a lie. Your friends, your family, your job, your whole life means nothing. There’s no such thing as decency, no such thing as honour. Since the day you were born until the day that you die, you will achieve nothing of significance. Unless you choose to make a stand. Only then will the world see you for what you really are.

Looking back filled him with terror. There was no poignancy, no nostalgic longing for days long since gone, nor a desire to recall opportunities lost. Recollection just brought memories absent of joy, while the need to suppress the nothingness inside left him drained and empty. His sobriety had much to answer for: the listlessness, the boredom, the sense of longing. The only merits it brought were clarity of thought and unequivocal responsibility; yet, with the knowledge that the choices he now made were his and his alone, clouded and influenced by nothing but his own mind, these virtues retained a sharp edge of bitterness.

Despite the self-awareness that many of his senses were on the wane, he maintained the ability to recall the years he spent fuelled by the bottle, when fulfilling one desire delivered nothing but lamentation, loneliness, and self-pity. It had been too late when the nexus between dependency and disappointment became clear, leaving countless bridges in cinders. Instead, his new-found piety was tempered only by caffeine, a new dependency desperately unable to placate the most overwhelming of fears. Above all, its sobering nature caused realism to become more unbearable, pain more insufferable, and time tick so slowly that each passing second seemed to humiliate his very existence. Yes, sobriety had much to answer for.

This humiliation felt even greater knowing that sobriety had been his choice. He’d staved off cravings with the same stubbornness and arrogance that had made him such an obstinate force throughout his life. Moments of vulnerability were countered with a facade of stoicism and control. A perfectly functioning alcoholic was a title he’d always felt carried a sense of prestige, and one that he had been bestowed upon him at the peak of his problems. It was hardly a life-changing diagnosis, and he retained the moniker with something close to pride until he alone felt it was time to relinquish this crown. Few people knew there was even an issue, and those that did found out only once he’d started on the road to recovery. But it remained his choice, and his choice to cheat or be true to himself. The temptation to relapse was powerful, with recent events making the allure of self-medication almost too much to bear. Had it not been for the tumult of the past, caving in to temptation would've been the easiest – and best – option available.

As things stood, he was left to let his mind wander. Opening that letter had changed his life and his thoughts seldom travelled anywhere else. The moment was as vivid today as any point in life. For an untold duration, he had simply stared at the envelope, certain that it contained nothing but bad news. One of the abiding memories of his father was him forewarning that hand-delivered mail always carried confirmation of the worst.

The preceding days had been about preparing for that moment; whatever was coming, there was no point holding back, he’d told himself. After all, he knew how to cope with the worst; nothing could rival that moment twelve years before when the precedent had been set. Any sense of negativity since that day paled into significance, washing over him and leaving a numbing trail. Any hope of a reaction had been met with ambivalence. With the arrival of this letter, however, it was different. The trail it left was one he couldn’t ignore.

Still his mind focused on that moment he sat with the envelope in his hand, the pause before tearing it open lasting a lifetime. Now, he sat motionless and lost in thought, the world around him continuing in blissful ignorance. He looked on and his gaze was met by many, but any connection with those passing by was unilateral – his own focus stuck in the past and tinged with sombre sobriety. It was he and his mind. Soon, he thought, even that would desert him.

“Jack?” A familiar voice stirred him from his passivity, repeating his name with greater emphasis before he’d even chance to turn and identify the owner of the dulcet tone.

“Julia? Julia, hi,” he eventually replied, turning and making to stand.

“Don’t be silly,” she said motioning for him to stay seated. “Mind if I join you? I’m absolutely shattered walking around town.”

“No. I’m mean, of course you can. Absolutely. Sorry, I was miles away.” He pulled a cup of coffee towards him, untouched and cold as stone. “I was just… having a coffee.” His voice wavered; to anyone other than Jack, it would’ve gone undetected. But to him, it was as though his stuttering was uncontrollable. He watched awkwardly as Julia removed her scarf and jacket, draping it with crisp precision over the arm of the chair.

“Shall I get you another,” she said with softness and a smile that warmed him in the way only an old friend can. This comforting gesture would’ve meant little to him in years passed, but today it offered a momentary sense of relaxation.

“Just a regular coffee would be great,” he replied. “Thanks.” As she walked away, Jack’s mind switched instantly back to the moment he opened the letter. Somewhere beyond his consciousness, Julia’s voiced placed an order for a white coffee and green tea, but to Jack, the sound was little more than muffled waves sounding underwater. Stay alert, he told himself. Don’t give anything away. Though time changes many things, and age withers countless abilities, there was a determination for his pride to remain undiminished.

People continued to filter by outside. As he waited for Julia to pay and return to the table, his mind turned to Sarah. He pulled out his wallet and opened to the photograph of Judy, Sarah and himself some twenty years hence. It was the last time Jack could remember being truly content. The three of them had booked a week away in Devon; a beautiful hillside cottage overlooking a bustling, working harbour. For the first - and last - time, the trio had spent a prolonged period of time with one another without outside interference; Sarah, just weeks from beginning secondary school, possessed the unparalleled innocence of one so young, the later years of shattered dreams and failed ventures of us all mere specks on the horizon. And then there was Judy. Beautiful Judy. Beautiful, neglected Judy. What he’d give to relive that single week.

Staring at the image of wife and daughter raised hitherto suppressed emotions inside; his hand began to shake uncontrollably. It had been so long since that beautiful week, and so long since he’d seen Sarah; but there was no-one to blame but himself. The tremor of his hand continued as Julia returned. Only the dull thud of the tray hitting the table stirred Jack from his stupor, and Julia pulled up the chair opposite. Jack quickly dropped his shaking hand into his lap. Keep strong.

“So, how have you been?” asked Julia. She had such a kind manner in everything she did, and her warm, homely glow seemed ever-present. “It must be… what… two, nearly three, years now? You still at Castle Hill?”

Jack nodded politely and managed to raise a smile.

“I do miss that road. Such a nice selection of people. It was a shame that, well, with everything that happened, I had to get out in such a rush. But I guess it’s true what they said: a change is as good as a break.” The two laughed warmly. Having lived next to one another for nearly fifteen years, the familiarity and comfort of old friends returned immediately. Although Jack had never let anyone get too close to him emotionally, he felt that Julia was among the most trusting friends he had. If he asked for support, it would be delivered unconditionally. In the years since she left the house next door, the street had felt half the place it was before.

“But what about you, Jack,” she continued. “Are you ok?”

He could feel his hand shaking in his lap. Pulling down the sleeve on his sweater, he tried in vain to cover the uncontrollable urge to tremor. “I’m… I’m fine,” he uttered. “Really. It’s just so unusual getting used to all this free time.”

“Oh, you’ve retired? Well... I never thought I’d see the day! All those years that Judy and I spent together while the two of you were off facing who knows what. I swear we spent more time worrying than actually seeing you.”

He felt awkward at the memory. “Well, you know how it was. It’s what we were there to do…”

“Jack, Jack, Jack,” she interrupted, leaning forward and placing a comforting hand on his knee. “That’s not what I meant. I - well, Judy and I - wouldn’t have expected anything less. That’s what we did in those days. We always - always - understood.”

His awkwardness failed to subside. Deep inside he burned with guilt; the guilt of neglecting his wife and child for what should’ve been the greatest years of his life; the guilt of placing his work before his family. And for what? An early retirement and a nice pay off? What good was that now when there’s no-one to share it with? He resented the decisions he’d made in his youth, and was being penalised now. If there was such a thing as karma, Jack felt like he was getting his just desserts.

“Besides, it could’ve been so much worse. Does Karen still live across the road?” Again, the two laughed, a memory shared without words. It had felt like an eternity since Jack had laughed. It felt like another before he would do so again.

***

Like the coffee with Julia, the rest of the afternoon disappeared in an instant. Despite the moments of regret that had been stirred by Julia’s recollections of the past, the chance meeting had provided a welcome break from Jack’s thoughts. With the winter night now closing in, and all company gone, the darkness could once again descend onto Jack’s mind. The letter.

His return walk home was welcomed by the onset of drizzling rain; a sign, if one were needed, that ill preparation was a failing he could no longer afford. Yet the winter rain could not deter his procrastination. As he walked, head bowed, he thought about continuing past the house and around the block just one more time. With a few extra minutes’ preparation, perhaps then he could face entering the room. Unlike the courage he could manifest in an instant during his younger years, today he was devoid of any such swagger. Instead, he shivered as he walked, noticing how he could not feel his legs moving. It was not the cold that caused the disassociation of his mind from his body, but depersonalisation.

He’d come across the sensation before, with the commonality of it among those suffering from sleep deprivation and anxiety startling and horrifying in equal measure. Now, here he was, spectating on his own existence from three paces back, watching the hunched figure desperately avoiding the inevitability of fate. It was a dream-like state that, for only a slight moment, saw him question the legitimacy of his own being. But before the weight of this existential conundrum began to bear down on him, Jack found himself opening the front door and making his way to the lounge.

It sat, opened and flat, on the coffee table, the torn envelope close beside. The distinctive logo was visible from across the room, and he recalled how the manner of its contents was all too clear the second he unfurled the letter. This was the confirmation of his expectations. He knew what it meant, and he knew he was helpless.

Jack decided it was time.