"Who's your hero? Truly. Who is it that reminds you to be a better person. The example you set your own standards against. The sometimes face that stares you back in the mirror as your own reflection, cheering you on to do more. To be more. The shining example of what success looks like to you."

"Write it down."

"Who's your worst nightmare? The presence that has you forget yourself in favour of their criticisms. Who's words eat at you and push you deeper and deeper into a state of anxiety. Who's had some kind of long term control over you. The one you simply can't stand up against, no matter how much you want to. They just exert this invisible strangle hold over your life."

"Write it down."

"Who's your biggest supporter? The leader of the cheer squad in your corner. The ever kind word. The much needed advisor. The wisdom when life seems to roll out of control and starts to look like a pile of dung. The ever ready hand to pat you on the back and reassure you it's all going to be alright."

"Write it down."

The participants in the room all seemed to be in and out of knowing and not knowing. Sometimes they were scribbling their answers with gusto, in assertive agreement with the name and possibly face on their minds. Their heros? Sometimes deep in thought, possibly wondering between multiple names to jot down. Their worst nightmares? And othertimes, looked a little lost. Like they weren't here nor there. Just blank. Thinking of their supporters, maybe?

The pen flicked about in his hand. Constantly. He was in deep thought, yet focused on the group at large. The movements of the writing instrument between his fingers mirrored his mental state. He couldn't believe he was here. He'd actually made the effort. Who'd have thought. And look at them. Just look at them. Hopeless alcoholics, just like him.

And they were. All in various depths of their addiction. Yet all had at least sunk to the level of holy shit what did I just do. It was a meeting for the hard cases. The types missing something within themselves, who had used liquor as a means to putty the hole. And as Louis' eyes tracked across the room, he guessed they might still be missing answers to the chairman's opening activity.

His left hand propped up his head. His elbow a kick stand for his boredom. Still, the pen flicked about, clicking and making noises with the movement of his right phalanges . His eyes continued to scan the room.

A women who looked older than she probably was. Her face looked tired. Stressed. In a state of suspended surprise. Her movements were sharp and quick, unable to keep her eyes on one thing, one person in the room for any extended period of time. Seconds. She was always a second away from fidgeting, it seemed.

A man in his early twenties. Troubled looking. An ever present furrow in his brow. Digging into his forehead like a fence post, which was holding up his serious demeanor. If only he would smile, Louis thought. Maybe that would be the difference between his constipated look and one of relief.

And the chairperson. Bob something or other? A physician? Surgeon? Louis didn't pay enough attention after he sat down. His mind was already running away, thinking about splashing itself with whisky, of all things. He did remember thinking, how the fuck would this well dressed and spoken abercrombie help them with their demons?

His exact words were demonic entities. And the name spiritual this or that spewed from his lips more than once when he introduced himself. Some group he and another were a part of that had spawned this meeting. Kindred wets. Using the drink as the reason for their problems. And now passing on some kind of weird hoodoo voodoo how the fuck did you get here shite.

Louis sighed. The three of them and this lunatic. The more he spoke the more sane the trio all seemed. And the less serious Del Rossi took it. Without a scribble on the loose white page, time was up. The others had been hard at work. Sort of. For them, it was an effort. Not unlike the effort it took them to pour their happiness down the sink. And that too was suppose to be part of the 'recovery' process.

Like life needed to be redone. Restitched. Pull off the old cloth and lay down a new one. Liquor was the wrong seam. It had to be resown with a dry spell. Because it was all that was bad in the world. Not them. They were fuckin' angels. What swirled around in the bottle was the devil. Or at least the milk of satan's right tit. Pennies probably dripped out of the other.

"So, what do you all have?" The makeshift shrink looked around the room, then landed his gaze upon who else but Fats.

"Let's start with you, shall we? What is it you wrote down?"

Louis grimaced. This was becoming more painful than a hangover. He glanced down at his page, the pen now sturdy between his index and middle finger, and thumb. He played the part as best he could, that of someone who had done what was asked. He took a good five seconds before answering.

"Nothing. I didn't write down any answers."

Bob looked puzzled, yet held a wry smirk. He glanced around at the others, then back at Louis. "Nothing? And why is that?"

Louis glanced back down at the paper on the table before him. He looked at the emptiness. And then the words hero, nightmare and supporter. He assumed there was a logical point to all this. The shenanigans in written form. They probably had some kind of deep meaning, or maybe they were like a therapeutic thing. Then he took a gander at the very top of the page. He smirked.

"Louis Del Rossi. That's my answer." He said with a confident spark in his eyes as he looked up at Bob, who sat at the very top of the rectangular table. Louis was at the other end, and the other two were to his left and right, occupying chairs in front of the longer sides.

"I am the hero I see in the mirror, because I choose the standards and life I live, no matter the puppet I give strings to. I am my own worst nightmare. I give my own power away, by choice, and then wonder why I feel so inferior. And I am my own supporter. I give myself boosts in confidence and reassurance."

The chairman looked perplexed. He didn't expect that answer. It was the first of its kind, within the first week of such an ambitious idea. To bring liquor abusers into a group and a therapy session aimed at doing away with it.

As Louis stood, he dropped the pen onto the table top before grabbed his jacket from hanging over the back of the chair.

"You forgot one thing though." He said as he stuck his right arm into the proper sleeve, and then the left. Louis rolled his shoulders, popped up his collar, then pulled down on the waistband, straightening his jacket.

"Oh?" Bob raised his chin in the air and crossed his arms. He had a curious, yet skeptical look plastered on his face. 

"You forgot to have us write down the problem." Louis picked up the piece of paper and begun scrunching it into a ball.

"It's not what's in the bottle, it's who's holding it. I am the problem, which means I am also the solution."

Louis made sure the ball was tight before tossing it at the bin in the corner from where he was standing. It hit the wall and missed completely. He smirked, then casually left the room, forgetting there were others in there with him. Later that night he would wish them well in also finding their peace.

He might've been a hopeless alcoholic, but he was fine with that. He could choose to drown himself in sorrow, or laugh himself into heavenly delight. As he walked out of the school, he made but one choice. To grab the best fuckin' bottle of liquor his money could buy on the way home.