This is another "creation" from my fiction writing class. I thought long and hard about even posting this for the world to see. And while that may sound a bit, well, pompous, I was/am concerned about the reaction of those who read it.
I learned a lot from this writing class. A lot, lot, lot. And surprising (to me)a lot on many different levels. The most shocking was that while writing fiction your mind, emotions and subconscious will take you to places you never thought were inside. Places you never thought existed inside you.
Wake up call. Those places do exist. Clearly.
This story is completely fiction. Mom, dad…I am not an alcoholic. Promise.
She stared at the bottle with disgust. That damn bottle ruined her life. Now all she had was that bottle. Everything else. Gone.
She knew going in that it might be dangerous. She knew the risks. She knew herself well enough. But she did it anyway. That first day seemed so long ago. After four long years she was gonna try again. Sober. What a horrible word. But she had to give it a whirl. Give it a go.
She sat there aching. Her insides eating themselves. Her brain churning. Someone make it stop. Staring at the bottle made it worse, but nothing else made it better. On this day, this hour, this minute what choice did she have? Was her pain worse than the pain she had caused? Would one more sip really make it worse?
Without thinking her left hand lifted from her lap. Fingers pointing outward. An unknown force drew her hand towards the warmth of the bottle. Square in shape, her hand could only wrap around part way. With the first touch she instantly recalled the smooth glass. Her knuckles turned white as her hold increased. Her bicep flexed and the bottom of the bottle lifted from the ottoman.
The glass touched her lips, she tipped the body of the bottle upwards. The brown liquid trickled into her mouth. The whisky burned when it hit her throat. The sensation was replaced by the orgasmic wave of warmth flowing through her body.
She tipped the bottle back down but only long enough for her thoughts to wander and as they did she quickly turned the bottle back up to the heavens and allowed her throat to swallow and swallow; to swallow all the liquid warmth, to swallow the pain, the discontent, the grief, the sorrow, the hatred. She swallowed. The more she swallowed the more she forgot. The more she forgot the more she swallowed.
Finally replacing the bottle, now empty, back to its original position, she absorbed the love from that bottle. But the bottle was empty and now the bottle was talking. The bottle was judging. The bottle would tattle. The bottle would expose their little secret. The empty bottle no longer loved her.
"Such is life and I am a royal fuck up. Well, better to be a royal fuck up than just a fuck up. Being a royal makes it better right?" she rambled to the bottle.
"Say something you son of a bitch! Go ahead judge. Judge me. But you don't know. You don't know where I have been. What I have dealt with. Your life has been so simple and now you have the audacity to judge me. Bastard." She paced back and forth.
The stomping around rattled the empty bottle. It now sat precariously on the edge of the leather ottoman. The ottoman only inches from the sliding glass door of her apartment. Her words turned to sobs, but she continued to pace. Back and forth, back and forth. And so rocked the empty bottle back and forth, back and forth.