Here's another short story I just wrote recently. It's dedicated to those who have lost a loved one due to someone's drinking. I hope it does not offend those many people.

Death's Brandy

I had wished that I was dreaming that fateful day. I had wished that what I had witnessed was only a nightmare that a child had. I had prayed with all my heart that it wasn't real. That the smell rising from it like a tell-tale sign of death was fake; a dream. That the red substance on the wall was only the paint from my paint set smeared across the wall by my little brother. I did not under any circumstance want it to be the blood I saw in my tormented sleep.
But it was.
It was horrifying to see it smeared across the wall in the hall as if it belonged there. That it was purposefully put there by our decorator. It was horrifying to follow the hall I saw in my many restless nights when I dreamt of coming home to Death leisurely sitting on the living room couch coddling a glass of brandy smirking at me. Watching me follow the prints of crimson down that very hall and laugh when I found the source and scream in fright. Then in tortured grief.
I never once saw the face of the victim lying face down on the bedroom floor with the mutilated foot and missing right forearm. I never once felt the tiny needles of ice prick my sensitized skin as I timidly touched the corpse. I never once felt the sticky feel of blood between my toes as I bravely stepped beside the unlucky person sprawled across my bedroom floor as if the were a throw rug. I never once felt the discoloured chapped, cold skin of the wrist I took to find a pulse knowing full well there wouldn't be one. I only heard the cackling laughter of Death on my living room couch. I only felt his unseen hand reaching toward me as I turned over the lifeless body to see who it was, only to wake up in a cold sweat and my covers on the floor.
That day I came home Death was not lounging on the living room couch as if he owned the place. No, there was only a glass of brandy sitting on the side table. A glass of brandy with a droplet of blood beside it. My breath caught in my throat. A cap was placed upon the neck of the bottle that allowed air to pass through to my lungs. With my curious avid eyes eyes I found the first puddle of crimson. The cap on my throat broke and the air rushed out of my lungs stirring the unseen dust in the air.
With slow reluctant steps I found the next pool. Looking up to the wall in front of me I found the smear of red I saw so many times in my fretful rest. Like many times before I followed the spaced coatings of scarlet unwanted paint to the end room.
The walls of the hall seemed to close in on me making it harder to breathe as I took another step by another. Following those marks of death to my bedroom where I saw again the corpse. The small body I never knew in my hateful nightmares, but knew now. Screaming in fright then in tortured grief I walked into the Red Sea, just as Moses had. I felt the coolness between my toes; the cool sign of Death's visit. I bent down beside the small corpse and gingerly touched the only wrist left to find the pulse that wasn't there.
I could hear the cackling laughter of Death as I toughed out the needles of ice and turned over the little body with no right forearm to see the face.
Why I had to see I do not know. I still don't to this day. I think maybe I needed to know for sure that it was who I knew it would be. I needed to know that it was the one who was always laughing. The one that had the brightest eyes and biggest grin. I think I need to know for sure that it was the one who always asked why. Who always wanted to know more about everything. I needed to know it was the one who always made a mess of the house. I need to know that because I wanted to be wrong.
But I wasn't.
I wasn't wrong when I looked into the frozen frightened face of Death's victim. I wasn't wrong when I looked into the gray eyes that were once such an exciting blue. I wasn't wrong when I found Death's brandy that day.
I wish to this day that Death had gone elsewhere. That he had left my little love alone. I pray to this day that he pays for what he did to torture me so. I wish to this day that my own parent hadn't had that brandy.
I wish to this day that I was wrong when I had wished that the red on the walls was paint placed by my little brother. Indeed, I was very sorrowfully correct in assuming that he had placed it there. It was just his own paint and not mine.
And there on the side table by the couch in the living room was Death's brandy.