Don looked down at his bloodied hand, then down at his desk and the scattered pieces of glass that covered it. He stood and held his wounded appendage away from the papers he had been studying, trying to staunch the maroon liquid that steadily poured from it.
He grimaced but just as he was reaching forward to press the button for the intercom, something caught his eye. He reached forward with his unwounded hand and gently tugged on a sheaf of paper that unfortunately didn't escape the booze and blood saturated mess. With a furrowed brow, he slowly sat back down just as the door to his office opened.
"Mr. Draper? I heard you shouting. Is everything okay?"
Don barely glanced up as he distractedly replied, "What? Yes, everything's fine. Close the door."
The secretary did as she was told as Don reread the single typed quote again.
"Life is a perpetual drunkenness; the pleasure passes, but the headache remains," he murmured to himself, the stinging pain in his hand slowly drifting to the back of his mind.
It was simple. It was admittedly cheesy, but it was also true. Don sat back and allowed his gaze to drift from the blood streaked paper to his desk, littered with bloodied flecks of glass.
That's my life, he thought. My life is glass.
Don never thought of himself as a fragile man. He was a man on top of the world.
Don's eyes fluttered as a wave of emotion suddenly overcame him, barely managing to hold back the burning tears that welled up. His hand began to shake, and he couldn't tell if it was the pain returning or the suddenly realization of what he had become.
He had become glass.
His life was in shatters. He was divorced. He had no family to call on. He drank too much and took care of himself too little. When things got too serious for Don, it was Dick who ran.
Life is a perpetual drunkenness.
He had bled his life dry so that he could be where he was.
And where am I?