Guardian angels sound like, and have always sounded, to me anyway, like a load of bollocks. In Ancient Greek mythology, they were pretty much accepted as having a presence. Being the cynical asshole that I am, I'd never bought it. Show me some proof, I said. No proof, no sale. Sorry.
After my little episode that I had, I had to say my mind was turning. Maybe it was coincidence that I passed out, drunk as a skunk, face down at my desk. Maybe I was just looking for an answer, or a reason why I never managed to pull that trigger and splatter my brains all over the wall. But as it stands, that's what happened.
One thing I'll never be doing again is mixing sleep aid pills with my vineyard's own deceptively sweet wine. Until a man enters a state of chronic depression, he will never understand it. Those strange thoughts, disturbing visions, swirled together and shaken around by sleepless nights, monotonous, boring days and drugs. I don't even understand it now, but honestly, I don't even want to.
At about 3 in the morning, from what I've been told, Maria, one of my live-in maids, entered my study. I'd been cramped up in here for the last few days, not venturing out much, not joining the staff for dinner, or even eating what was left outside the door. Maria had entered after I failed to acknowledge her knocking, and there I'd been; slumped at my desk, comatose wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. I'd been face-down over the table. The chemical shake that was in my stomach had curdled and brought up acidy bile and half digested wine from my stomach, in which my face and desk was covered in. In my left hand was a leaking pen, lightly touching a soaked, smudged bit of paper, some illegible words scrawled across it. Some kind of suicide note perhaps? In my right hand was a magnum revolver, covered in sweat. My hand was still fixed around the butt with my finger over the trigger.
Although I can't quite remember all the details of the night, I could remember the feel of the cold metal barrel of the gun in my mouth. I still have a sore patch at the top of my mouth that I'd pushed the neck into, presumably in the hope that if I pushed hard enough the gun would discharge and I wouldn't have to summon the balls to actually consciously pull the trigger. Bad times indeed. What I do remember vaguely is opening my eyes and spying Maria through my blurry fish-eye vision, gawking in panic. She shouted something, perhaps to me, perhaps to the other present staff, and that was it. The next thing I remember is Thiago, the young Chilean who is in charge of the cattle carrying my lifeless body outside into the cool breeze.
Two weeks later I was discharged from the most affluent rehab clinic in Chile, which still wasn't that great, but they looked after me no end and brought me back to my senses. No alcohol or cigarettes had made me a bit agitated but the urges soon left. I felt cleansed, like I'd somehow flushed all of the evil and pollutants from my system. For the first time in years I felt healthy and undisturbed. I also felt… unfulfilled. Like I should be doing something with my life, so I set off back to Calle from the clinic in Santiago, armed with big ideas, a fresh, new outlook on life and a heart full of ambition.