The Setting Moon

I'm really walking into a blizzard.  Something I can't seem to ever tap with a sober mind is now only three or four sips of whiskey away from bursting out like a bullied child at the end of his tether.  A hangover used to be two or three hours of sore head.  Then, several years down the line the sick stomach was added to that equation, making a sort of dire cocktail.  Throat ache and the shits followed shortly after, and for some reason a blocked nose made a brief appearance.
Now, though, my body has exhausted its plethora of internal inflictions on these thumping Saturdays, and has handed me the reins.  The inflictions are now external, still physical but with obvious roots (probably, I wasn't there) in the mental.  Aching, swollen knuckles.  Gashes down my right arm.  Why am I doing this to myself?  Surely the booze already does enough damage on its own.  That untapped thing is clearly a cause for concern, something dangerous and nocturnal that shouldn't be let out when I'm not there.  A werewolf.  A full glass is my full moon.  The human flesh I seek to feast on is my own.  That incredible tube station chase scene between the raging beast and the terrified, solitary commuter from An American Werewolf in London happens in my head all the time.  I'm both parties (in case I hadn't made that clear by now).
I tell her I'm going to do it, one day, and every time I say that I'm more and more convinced myself and she endures me and endures me again and again and again and sticks by me as I scream into my palms or babble about high balconies and oncoming trains.  Then I awake, wait for all the horrible things to come flooding back (and the obligatory facebook delete-a-thon) and roll around my crumpled bed sheets turning this internal monologue into one, long groaning syllable.  I take a moment to locate my newest injuries then I try and close up completely through either embarassment, shame, self-pity, anger, sorrow, guilt or afternoon TV.

The calm lasts a while.  Everything is okay for a generous portion of time.

Then I'm doing it again.  A few merry pints and a fond conversation has somehow taken a wrong turn to another horrible threat of suicide to the last person on Earth who deserves to sit through this.  Again she stands by, endures me and doesn't walk out and leave me to myself forever more.
But one day the fragment of an idea pops into being.  It will be a while before it is seriously entertained, but once it's there it can't be shed.  She finds herself increasingly in long bouts of consideration for weeks on end, then I act out again and the camel's back is smashed to shit.

He won't do it to me again.
He won't have the pleasure of seeing my face when he makes those threats.
Because I will do it.
No threats, no repeated tongue lashings on the matter.
He'll be home soon, better get to it.

Once again I'm crying into my pillow.  Only this time I know exactly why.  I'm tugging at the duvet crumpled on the empty space next to me.  This time there's nobody to endure me, because they've done all the enduring they could.