I remain in my office, nursing glass after glass of whiskey, until the early rays of sunlight filter through the blinds. The amber liquid burns my throat, dulling none of the rage still bubbling beneath my skin. I pick up my phone, dialing my doctor.
“Is he stable enough for another round?” I ask, my voice steady despite the alcohol coursing through me.
“With caution,” he replies, clipped as always. “Don’t push him too far, or it’ll end in cardiac arrest.”
“Noted,” I mutter, ending the call before standing. The bastard downstairs hasn’t seen hell, and I’m eager to show him. Last night was just tasting the water.
By the time I arrive, he’s asleep, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths— a small smile tugs at my lips. I love waking him.
Walking to the corner, I grab the bucket of wa
