Man in a Can: Tony Stark (PTSD Recovery)

Chapter Two: Alcohol and Antibiotics

(Title Art Credit: FALMAKEZ)
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   Tony lifted the bottle of whiskey to his lips, chugging away a couple sloppy gulps. Drops of amber liquid dripped down the side of his cheeks, running down to his neck and making it sticky.

Tony didn't bother to wipe it away. He sniffed, looking at the bottle. "I'm going to get roaringly drunk if I don't slow-," Tony hiccuped, which turned into a burp, which turned into vomiting.

Tony groaned, holding a hand to his side. Owww.

More whiskey. That was the answer to his pain.

He took his shot glass in his unsteady hand, slopping more whiskey into it.

He knocked back another shot, swallowing another few pills in the process.

   He turned the glass in his hand, looking at it. His fingers fumbled, and the glass shattered against the ground on impact.

   The amber colored liquid contrasted with the gray concrete of his shop, and the alcohol was a lake of caramel, two frozen ice cube islands floating amidst the center.

   Tony stood up, clumsily reaching for another shot glass.

   He plopped back down against the couch, the ankles of his sweatpants soaking up the mess.

   The numbing affect of the whiskey and bourbon wrapped his body in a familiarly comfortable blanket, dulling the pain of the glass shards embedded into the soles of his bare feet.

   Tony didn't give two shits what happened anymore. Truth is, he was tired. Tired of fighting his past. Tired of being haunted and tormented by his memories. Tired of the mess he had to deal with... tired with the damage he had caused.

   He was the Joker, watching the world burn with a big fake smile on his face. It was drawn on with a bright red marker, and what real grins were passed were mere distractions to hide how insane he was really going inside.

   Tony was sick of feeling alone, no matter how many people he surrounded himself with. He was done just surviving. He was done scrambling around like a mad man every day to find what small fractals of joy he found from those he loved to fuel him through the day, knowing he'd eventually just drive them away.

But the car he drove had run dry. The gas tank was leaking as it chugged hopelessly through an endless dusty desert, sun beating down the exterior, leading to its inevitable doom.

Tony pressed the cold metal barrel of the gun to his chin. His reasons were perfectly clear, but it was if his clouded mind was doing it's best to scare him from pulling the trigger.

Tony had no doubt the brief flash of pain accompanying the bullet wouldn't be numbed from the alcohol coursing through his veins, but unlike the life he was about to escape, it would be over quickly, and therefore he considered it a bearable necessity.

Tony wanted to make sure his attempt wasn't just an attempt. He had considered adding drugs to his toxic cocktail party of hate, but he had promised Peter he'd stop. And he had, hard as it had been.

   And he no longer had the arc reactor to remove and simply just wait it out. But unlike the drugs, the alcohol addiction was still going full force, and it wasn't getting any better.