He wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at himself. He was naked, wet, and crying. He cried most mornings, crying was the easy part. He took his straight razor in hand and slid it back and forth against the leather strop, a new affectation. A disposable or an electric would have been easier, cost effective and a whole host of other benefits. Yet it wasn't self-destructive enough. And for Aidan, the destruction of self was all important.
   Clean shaven and presentable he began his daily walk to work. Aidan lived in the worst section of Providence, Rhode Island. Some would take pity on him for his many troubles, but today he had no room for pity. As he began walking the imagined stench of a house fire hit his nostrils. He ignored it as best he could, which is to say, not at all. His brown bag of lunch swung heavily as he briskly trooped across the city. He didn't say hello or greet those he passed. He didn't stop for coffee or conversation. He could not care less for small talk or idle chit-chat. He was a man on a mission for a mission. Searching for direction, but finding only routes, none of which suited his tastes. He had only one appointment that he would keep on his trek to the office. He sat on the same bench he had sat in for years, nearly seven years. He crossed his legs at the ankle, opened his paper bag and took out a can of Pepsi. A bell rang and children spread out onto the concrete yard. He took a sip and watched them. They chased each other, screamed, and laughed. He shivered at their laughter. That sharp glass breaking shrilling that made the bones in his ear squirm. He inhaled, gulped the Pepsi and stood up. No, today wasn't the day.  He dropped the can in the rubbish bin.
    At the office his coworkers knew better than to say more than a, Hi, or simply to nod. Aidan ignored them without fail. At his desk he threw on his headset and dialed the numbers he was given to call. He sold gutter guards. He was, ironically enough, top salesman in the company. At six p.m. he headed back towards his empty apartment, making his daily detour for a gallon of vodka at a liquor store that sold more than just booze and snacks. He also bought a can of Dinty Moore beef stew, a can of cat food, and some Kleenex. The cashier gave him the usual nod after he paid and Aidan walked out back behind the store. In the alley, he sat in a yellowed-white plastic chair, popped the top on the cat food and spread it on some Kleenex. He put it down next to him. He then opened the stew and ate it cold. A mangy cat attacked the Kleenex and he pretended not to notice, lest he disturb it. He dropped the can near the feline and it was also mauled in frenzy of kitty starvation. Then, he began to drink. Quickly. Aidan despised alcohol, as a Muslim, he swore never to drink the poison, but life it seemed, conspired against Allah's wishes. When his head swam and his body grew light he slipped a pink bic lighter from his pocket and balled some of the Kleenex. He lit it and watched it burn to ash. He repeated the process, his eyes glistening in the weak light. This stuff, this horrid, beautiful stuff, the flames. They had taken everything from him. Left him with only memories that he wished he could forget. Aidan wished he was never married, never a father, at least then, there would be no more endless pain. Too much pain for one heart. Of his small nuclear family, only he was left. Let to suffer, until...  He vomited, a loud horse-like sound. He rose unsteadily on vodka legs and stumbled home. He returned to his apartment unmolested. He was ruined enough, there was no gain in perpetual misery, As he opened the door, he said, "What a dump!"  His life so loved the play 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf'. He never cared for it. Yet remembering her expression as she often repeated the line, eased his suffering a little, just a little.