[color=MediumPurple][center][h3]Father Coughlin[/h3][/center][/color]

In total darkness, Coughlin abruptly woke, gasping in the quiet of his room. Another night terror had ushered him to the waking world. Rolling over in his bed, the clinking of beer bottles accompanied his movement, a few falling unto the floor, Coughlin reached out for his lamp, flicking it on. With the light came the pain, as he recoiled from the sudden brightness and the realization of his activities the night before, the evidence in the form of empty food wrappers, various glasses of liquor, and of course beer bottles.

Peeking over the edge of his bed, broken glass welcomed his bare feet and he felt relief that he had the foresight to looking first. He was not always so lucky. Cursing under his breath, he pushed himself up and gingerly stepped over the sharp shards, retreating to his bathroom for a trash bag to clean up his mess. After doing the customary tidying up, Coughlin took a quick shower and donned his traditional attire - simple black dress pants and his clerical shirt-collar combination. It was the quintessential Coughlin outfit. Its crisp and well-maintained appearance thoroughly contrasted with the man underneath.

By the time he left his house, it was well past the early morning; thank God it wasn't a Sunday. Of course, the Sheriff - Coughlin's neighbor - was gone, being the boy scout early-riser that he was. Coughlin admired the man and regarded him with all due respect, but he'd be damned to wake up that early. Turning away from his home, he set off on foot, his destination the general store. Restocking his supplies of alcohol was always a hassle, involving awkwardly spun lies to hide his rampant addiction. Usually he chose odd-hours to avoid the brunt of onlookers, potential members of his church that would have all sorts of nosy questions. But he was in dire need of a drink for the night to come, to calm him before Sunday service and for the nightmares to come in his sleep. They always seemed to flare up right before holy days. Hopefully that didn't mean anything.

His walk there was as usual, slow and full of chatter. Most everyone from church who saw him just had to give their two-cents about what his next sermon should be or who was going to hell or what verse would he share. Feeling particularly bad, the good Father made sure to impart the horrors of the Book of Revelation to those who deigned to waylay him. As he neared the general store, his bad leg began to act up from old injury, and by the time he was at the front door, he had to stop and take a quick rest, leaning on the wall while rubbing his leg. Silently, he ran through a myriad of curses and blasphemies in internal anger.