Hullo all! This is a two-part story on Arthur and Alfred, both whom are prone to a whiskey lullaby. Arthur's part is up and I shall post Alfred's shortly if there are people reading it.
PS: The song is "Whiskey Lullaby" by Brad Paisley feat. Allison Krauss.

Whiskey Lullaby

((Arthur's Whiskey Lullaby))

"What's wrong with you?!"

"Can't you see I'm tryin' to get away from you?!"

"Let go, you old man!"

Arthur clutched the bottle tighter around his fingers, willing the images to disappear from his head for good.

"You're disgusting, ya know that?"

"After all this time, I dunno why I ever agreed to date you."

"I made a huge mistake, just by getting together with you."

A mass of blond hair shook sideways fervently. No, he could not think about it. No, he should not even try to recall that painful night. No, the pain will overtake him once again, destroying his peace of mind and his withered heart.

He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget. He had to forget.

He had to forget, if not...

Without further ado, he took another swing of whiskey from the glass bottle, relishing in the way the amber liquid slid down his throat, leaving a trail of fire behind. When it reached his stomach, a furnace was lit, warming every nook and cranny of his body, chasing the cold memories away.

Whiskey had that effect on him, actually every strong alcoholic drink did, but he had always preferred whiskey. Rum was on his list, but it was too mild for his palette. Vodka too, but he never liked the bitter taste of it. Wine, even when downed the whole bottle, could not gloss over his brain to make him forget. Bourbon, well, it was just too American.

Just too much of him.

'Bloody hell, I'm doing it again.' Another swing as he watched the remaining whiskey being drained from inside the glass bottle. 'Stop. Stop it. Stop thinking about him and you'll be fine.'

He raised an arm over his eyes, blocking out the artificial yellow light which was emitted from a swinging lamp. Here he was. Arthur Kirkland. The so-called literary genius of his time, the inspirational writer whose articles are read in almost every household, the healer of sickness and despair with words, the great Arthur Kirkland.

What was he really?

Was he a writer? Yes, he was. Indeed, he was Britain's most cherished and idolised author of the time, hailed as a god in his element. Was he that popular? Yes, he was. An estimated 6.4 million copies of his new book sold out within an hour. Was he rich? Yes, he was. Supposedly, he is in the top ten list for Britain's richest bachelors. However, he tends to lead a very frugal lifestyle. Was he happy?

…

Of course not.

Arthur blinked open his once sparkling emerald eyes, now dulled dramatically. The yellow lights above him looked distorted through the now empty glass bottle, as if he were living in a fairytale, a place where no one could disturb him and he would live happily ever after.

'But you never did have a happy ending, did you old chap?'

Heaving a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the living room sofa, onto the kitchen where he stocked all his liquor. Clumsily making his way to his intended destination, his slippers shuffled with every step he dragged, Arthur noticed a bleary-eyed man staring back at him.

At first, he wondered whether a thief or a beggar had managed to slip through his front door and was about to shout to catch his neighbours attention, but he realised after a few moments that it was himself. Examining the reflected Arthur in the floor mirror, he noticed the thick and puffy eye bags, the thin arms and legs, the placid skin, the messy hair, the untidy clothes, the hollow cheekbones, the cracked lips. They combined to form a sickly figure of him, much like an imposter to his old self.

Where he once was good-looking enough, with his feathery blond hair, sparkling emerald eyes, lithe figure, milky white skin and full lips, The man staring back at him through the reflection was not him. It was the shell of the him who had died inside.

How many years has it been?

Four? Five?

When was the last time he had seen him? When was the last time he had stopped thinking about him? When was the last time he ever demolished drinking?

Flames burned in his stomach, flames of anger, humiliation, shame, guilt and utter sadness.

The thoughts were buzzing in his head like an angry bee again, they fought and clambered over each other, waiting to be heard, wanting to be acknowledged at the very least.

He cracked open another bottle of whiskey, another bottle of happiness, of forgetfulness. Another bottle, so as to wash all the memories away.

He put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarette.
He broke his heart; he spent his whole life trying to forget.
We watched him drink his pain away, a little at a time.
But he never could get drunk enough to get him off his mind.

Until the night...

Then, there was this one night. He downed another bottle of precious amber liquid, after a whole dozen of them. Why should he care if his liver died? There was nothing for him here anyway.

He had spent the whole day out. To the parks, to the museums, to the zoo, hell even to the circus. Wherever he went, all along the way, he carried a picture in his favourite coat pocket. All the places which he visited today, they each held a special memory. A treasured time which had drifted far away. A place where he could no longer bring back.

He turned the picture he had been carrying over in his hand. It was of a boy, a boy as young as 20. He had a pair of glasses perched upon his sculpted nose, eyes as blue and free as the sky, tanned muscular body, cheesy but innocent grin and that endearing cowlick upon his straw blond hair. He was wearing a plain hoodie with the Star Spangled Banner emblazoned at the front and worn out jeans. The boy held a peace sign whilst the camera clicked, his face framed in it forever.

This boy was Alfred F. Jones, and he was his lover. Key word being 'was'. They broke up years ago, something about Alfred disgusted by Arthur and never wanted to see him again.

It hurt. It hurt more than anything in the world, for more than five years. He carried that pain with him every day he did, bearing it like a cross upon his back. He didn't want this, didn't ask for this. He never wanted to let Alfred go, yet he has went somewhere.

All day he brought the picture of Alfred with him, to the places they usually went together. He wanted it to last, he wanted those days to come back.

But they wouldn't. So he tossed the picture into the fireplace, watching as the flames licked the corners of the picture, watched as it curled in onto itself and was slowly reduced to ashes. A small comfort came to his head and he smiled slightly. After this, after all of this, he would finally be able to let go.

One last glance around his room, before he went away. The sofa was neatly made, the carpeted floors were clean, the whiskey bottles were packed into a plastic bag should anyone find them. On the coffee table were the three things he needed.

He checked the note for spelling errors again, just to make sure. How could a famous author leave a badly written note? The second, he took a swing from, draining the whiskey bottle completely. Again, the burning sensation spread throughout his body, warming his insides. The third he ran his hand over it, feeling its weight in his palm before he arranged a smile on his face, put it to the side of his head and pulled the trigger.

He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger.
And finally drank away his memory.
Life is short but this time it was bigger,
Than the strength he had to get up off his knees.

We found him with his face down in the pillow,
With a note that said "I'll love him till I die".
And when we buried him beneath the willow,
The angels sang a whiskey lullaby.

Thank you for reading, good ladies and gentleman! I hope you have enjoyed this story.
Wish to see you on the next chapter!