'You're a loser. You'll always be a loser. Now get the fuck out there and do your worst, you fuckin' asshole!'

Four times out of ten it happened the same way. Three-Fifths into a bottle of Jameson and one-half hour into a limp exhibition of his manhood. Sixty-nine dollars down the drain. Two unsatisfied customers. The guy was paying for the sex, and yet she somehow came away feeling the worst of it.

It was a cycle on repeat. A scratched bit of vinyl spinning a thrashed track at seventy-eight revolutions per minute, in an equally treated hotel room. The sound of self-loathing warped throughout. Rang through his right ear and bounced around his head, then out the other. But it stuck with him. It always stuck with him, like an arm or a leg; he just couldn't shake it, even when he was shaking it.

It was the kind of day that hell told as a bedtime story. But the kind that was also preached in Church. It kind of gave you the chills yet was also a kind savior at times. Because when you needed it, it just felt so familiar, and it hugged you so. Like the wet corners of a favorite blanket that had been sucked on. It was still yours, and the energy on it a piece of you, so the dampness was forgiven.

The days started the same way, yet usually ended another. Because the starting line and the finishing line were seen through different shades. Fuck off morning. Don't leave me, night. It was a frantic race in-between. The more lively, the more it felt lived. The more intense, the more the moments meant something. The more drunk, the more there was to drink to.

He sat back on the bed for a moment, hoping this time would be different. He brushed the hair away from his eyes and made sure to check if the dough had been taken. If it had, she was long gone. It was always taken. Another jaded night. The money didn't change it, even after it changed hands. It left the same slimy aftertaste, no matter who was touching it.

He kicked off the generic styled sheets and dragged himself out of the rumpled bed. His feet felt numb, much like his overall experience. Like his soul fucked off the moment he decided to flick the cap loose from the bottle, artificially smiling as he did. But it was familiar. And it called to him, constantly, like a dog howling. He couldn't not. He had to. To drown it out, at the very least.

But that was last night. A bird perched itself on the open windowsill. Its chipper mood disturbed by a pillow being tossed in its direction. Who wants to hear that shit, the sound of life, when death had just risen at the crack of dawn. He found it hard to get the momentum up to move. But he had to. It was another day. Another grind. Money didn't count itself.

The room began to spin as he staggered from the bedroom through the attached kitchenette. Holding his throbbing head, he finally reached his destination. The light flickered on to a familiar squint. He stepped forward to face the music. It was a deadbeat, staring back at him. Some water splashed his sickly face. Leaning his body-weight against the basin, Adonis discerned the reflection.

Some days he stayed clean. Others, he was Three-Fifths of a bottle of Jameson deep, peering up from inside the glass prison to paralyze the same thoughts that currently shouted back at him in the mirror...

'You're a loser. You'll always be a loser. Now get the fuck out there and do your worst, you fuckin' asshole!'

He was a slave to his own insensible sensations. The chains were fit tight. He could practically hear the harsh metal clanking as he went about his day, dragging the metal ball closely behind...

'You're a loser. You'll always be a loser. Now get the fuck out there and do your worst, you fuckin' asshole!'

Adonis hurled his hand forward, slung from where he was shouldering most of the burden. His knuckles cracked against the glassy image. It seemed like parts of him were breaking away as the mirror spat out pieces.

The cold tiles met his knees and shins as he collapsed into a heap. He'd been here before. In the dark stairwell of rock bottom. If he could ignore the bloodied hand and broken spirit, it had a reassuring kind of scenery to it. He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the roof of possibility, right into emptiness.

It was a long way, either way. A tired body to get him there. A blunt instrument to bludgeon his way back into despair. Or a few more bumps and bruises to add to his character. The type that needed to lose now and then, and sometimes lose big, to eventually win. Some more tools in the soldier's knapsack to ascend.

The dove moved onto an olive branch outside the window. He could see it bob its head and puff out its feathers, from the upside-down, backwards angle he'd drunk himself into once more. It looked a little worse for wear. Kindred souls. Sometimes that's what was needed. A symbol, a sign, from an unlikely friend.

A moment of clarity broke through as he found himself outside himself, listening and watching the dove coo...

'You're a winner. You'll always be a winner. Now get the fuck up and make shit happen, you fuckin' asshole.'