Ronald rubs his eyes and comes back to the world faintly. He tries to speak but his sore throat doesn’t let him. His breath reeks of alcohol and his body is still intoxicated. He longs for a drink of water but feels lifeless and unable to get out of the cozy bed. He musters up the little left energy in his old wrinkled body and sits straight. He rubs his eyes and looks outside the window. He has no memory of the heavy snowfall that occurred the previous night. He stands up with the support of his bedside and walks to the kitchen. His housemaid made him breakfast before leaving for the grocery shopping. He picks up an empty bottle and fills it with fresh water from the tap. Taking a long breathless sip of the drink, he feels like his head is going to explode. He looks outside through the kitchen window and rushes to the door. The door makes a creak sound when flung open. He forgot to park his car in the garage. The snow has devoured his sixty-nine Impala like a tiger consumes it’s prey.

He curses loudly, “Bollocks! How can I be so stupid?” and stares at the hardly visible car roof. He pours himself a glass or orange juice and adds vodka to it from an almost empty bottle. He vigorously shakes the bottle and does not spare a single drop. He uncovers a plate set up on the kitchen counter and cringes on seeing carrots and peas. He sits on his recliner and switches on the TV. “Carrots for a meal, my arse! The lady cannot make a decent bacon and eggs breakfast.” he grumbles. He is almost in his drunk slumber when the doorbell rings. He pretends like no one is in the house. But soon he realises that the sound from the television is a giveaway. He gets up, lights a cigarette and opens the door. Dense smoke comes out of his mouth as he looks outside.

“Cookies Sir, caramel, chocolate, nuts” says a little girl standing outside. She is covered head to toe in pink. Her cheeks are red from the cold outside. “Go away”, Ronald snorts. “Ow, you smell filthy.” she says with her pink gloved hand covering her nose. “Yeah! Bite me. go away I said.” says Ronald and shuts the door. He goes back on his recliner and changes TV channels. “Bloody kids, nothing to do.” he murmurs and falls back into the arms of a drugged nap.

He wakes up when his housemaid comes back two hours later. She sets the groceries on the table and says, “So, how long are you going to regret living? I am not complaining, but it has been more than a month now. Get a hold of yourself and throw away that orange juice disguised vodka that you keep drinking.”

“Oh shut up. You and your whining. Do your job and get out of my house.” he says without looking at her.

“I am doing my job, what about you?” she says.

“What about me?” he says, eyes fixed on the TV screen, fumbling with the remote.

“What about that new book that you promised the publisher?” she says.

“What about it?” he say and throws away the remote, “This son of a bitch never works.” he mutters.

“Well, where is it?” she says.

“None of your business.” he says, slightly turning his head towards her.

“Oh yeah? Then why does your publisher call me every morning like I am your mother?” she says with a louder voice.

“Ignore that son of a bitch.” he says, getting up from the recliner.

“I will, if you start writing again.” she says and pointing towards the typewriter lying idly on the cherry wood table that Ronald purchased for writing.

“I have no stories left in me. I think they call it the writer’s block” he says.

“Why don’t you write about your grief then. That pours out of you plenty” she says and turns away.

Ronald pours himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal jar. He drinks all of it in a single drink. He sits by his cherry wood table and touches the keys of the typewriter. He feeds a paper into the old machine and begins to write. Pages after pages, till he has bled on every single one of them with black ink.