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Saigon, always dreams of Saigon. The stuff of nightmares.
I wake up on the park bench, guts really hurt.
Almost hurt as much as my head.
Got a half empty bottle of bourbon in my hand, brown paper bag.
Jesus, where the hell am I?
Forget it. Not in Saigon. Good enough.
It's night time in the park. Dangerous for some people.
But not me. The gangs, they won't bother with an old washout like me.
Not worth the hassle to roll me. I ain't got ***.
Nothing worth stealing. My half empty bottle of bourbon.
Half empty, half full, whatever. It's cheap *** and it's rottted out my guts again.
Go home.
Home. Home is a ratshit block of flats with a stairwell that smells like stale *** and fresh vomit, concrete, and spraypaint.
Not much, but it's home.
Home. Where the heart is.
God, my heart.
I'm looking around, trying to find the will to stand.
Trying to find the will to go home and face my daughter.
I can't drink in the house, it just upsets my sweetest girl.
She's only ten and she knows that daddy is killing himself.
I don't drink in the house, I drink here on my park bench.
It used to be our park bench, now it's just mine.
I guess the time is around ten. Nights are drawing in, could be earlier.
Doesn't matter, I've left my girl on her own for too long now.
I need to get back and play daddy and put my girl to bed.
After that, I'll go to bed too.
I'm walking now, staggering really.
God, I must look like ***. Or maybe I'm just imagining ***, yeah.
I'm the same perfect specimen I was twenty years ago.
I'm walking, picking up a little speed and trying to do a straight line.
I'm walking fast, I want to go home.
I want out of here. I'm not as safe as I thought I was.
There's gangs here, standing out beyond the umber lights.
Leather and chains creaking in the cooling air.
The snap of a flick-knife.
I walk faster. I want to go home. Walk face down.
Keep your eyes on the pavement. Don't bash into anyone with your drunk swagger old man.
Go home.
I'm at the stairwell and the lift is still ***.
I'm climbing the stairs, I'm drunk but I keep my hand away from the greasy banister.
This place stinks worse than usual.
Something crunches beneath my foot, it's glass and I know it's a junkie's needle but I just keep climbing.
I don't stop till I reach the top and it's because I see it, my door is open.
She knows to keep the door shut.
Oh, God, no.
I'm in the door, I damn near break it off the hinges I hit it that fast.
I'm through into my lobby with the yellow wallpaper and the torn carpet, and there she is, blue, wrapped in a sheet and sitting up, but she's blue.
She's not alone.
The *** just looks at me, calm.
He's sober and collected, he's a smooth professional.
He tells me I'm a failure as a father.
I tell him he's a dead, dead man.
I'm wrong. It goes black, and I'm back in Saigon.
Always dreams of Saigon. The stuff of nightmares.