He tipped the glass to his lips, the whiskey burning as it poured down his throat. With an unsatisfied sigh, he wiped his mouth with his forearm, bloodshot eyes finding themselves in the old, cracked mirror that sat in the corner of the room. He hated himself, it was fact not opinion. He hated that he had to drink every night to stay sane, he hated that he smoked to try to relieve stress, he hated all the dirty habits he’d picked up over the last two years. But most of all, he hated what he did to her.