|| "No!" It is not even eight and his alarm
clock already rings. "Life sucks!" he says. He thinks about his life every
morning when he gets up. But usually he can not say anything because he throws up during
the night and has to clean up the mess when he wakes up. His eyes circle around: Billy is
lying in the corner, still with a bottle of rum in his hands, then Clara and Paul,
sleeping on the bed, not dreaming of each other but of a world where heroin is cheap. Over
there, under the sink, is another case of beer. "Good," he thinks.
Everything looks so peaceful that he wonders why he has this
feeling that his life should not be like this. Why is he not one of these brokers or
managers or one of these guys that are just born with money? These people have big houses,
big, fast cars and, first of all, a family: a wife and children, a dog, maybe even loving
He dreams of such a home: It would be laying on the
shores of a small, clear lake, surrounded by the woods. He wants to live out in the
country, far away from the big cities with their big troubles. It would be a big house
with many bright, big rooms, with antique furniture and high ceilings. He would sit in an
old chair and suddenly hear a shout of happiness. Then a little girl would run towards
him, shouting out "Daddy, Daddy, Mom is home!" and he would get up and see his
beautiful wife entering the room.
They would eat dinner together. The sun would shine
from the other side of the lake through the big windows and give the room a warm
atmosphere. They would talk and laugh all the time, he, his wife, and their lovely child.
The food would be delicious; his wife would be a great cook.
"What the hell!" he says. It is already
almost nine. He will skip work today, as usual. He does not even know if he still has his
job; he has not gone in the last two weeks. Instead, he drinks beer, smokes cigarettes and
marijuana and dreams of a better future.