Some small fiction

Nothing worked. That was the problem. No matter how hard he tried, how many different potions, chants, positions, remedies he tried, nothing worked. It seemed as though there was an invisible curse holding his soul in bonds, which nothing could undo. Sighing a deep, world weary sigh, he took another bottle of whiskey from the crate and sat on the bed. 
Even that made him sob a little, something which he had lost all willpower to stop over the last few days. Fuck it, he figured, there was no one left to see him cry anyway. So he sat, face lit by the dead minded glow of the blizzard on the tv screen, crying in long, tired heaves.
A cold breeze blew through the window, but instead of closing it, he took a gulp of Jack and closed his stinging eyes. He must leave the window open. That was all he could do. That, and hope. It was not a good hope, it was a sick, diseased cousin of hope. It was an escape, and not even an escape to a better place. Thinking this, lying on his back with the bottle rising and falling slowly on his chest, he had to smile through the grime and the tear-tracks. To be or not to be. The question had been answered for him now, and all he could do was look forward to discovering that dim country.
The clock scraped the seconds into the wastebin of eternity, outside, unknown to the man getting steadily senseless, the moon was whipped across the sky once more. He was used to waiting. Waiting and thinking. With the thoughts returned the dull surprise, the unease of the coincidence which had happened days before. He breathed another sigh, feeling the all too familiar pinch in the pit of his stomach. It was hopeless. It had been ever since he'd lost himself that day in the park. His face screwed up, trying to reel from the memory, to find a better light for that past.
The bottle was three quarters empty when there came a noise at the window and someone stepped into the room. He looked over with hooded eyes and a slight smile of resignation. 
He took one last swig from the bottle and settled to his knees, muttering under his breath on the frailty of women. What was good enough for Hamlet was good enough for him. Much better for Hamlet, he considered in his drunken mindset, there would be no angels singing him to his rest. 
The rest is silence.