Tommyinnit Oneshots

They Told Me Alcohol Would Make Me Feel Better (They Lied)

It was a late autumn night, nearing the hour of midnight. The crescent moon hung in the sky like a silver petal falling from the sky. The stars twinkled behind misty gray clouds hanging in the atmosphere like silk curtains. The wind was blowing with a sharpness that usually only came during a winter storm. A blonde teenager wearing a faded red jacket suited for late September weather and not cold November nights was sitting in an alleyway on the steps that led up to a bright red door the same shade as neon blood. The teenager's legs were laid out before him, pressing into the concrete with enough force that he was sure he was going to bruise. He shivered as another breeze grabbed hold of his clothes and hair, twisting them around before dropping them back against his pale skin. Even though he hated the cold, he didn't move a single muscle to find warmth. He just leaned against the metal railing of the stairs, staring up at the sky with a bottle of strong liquor pushed against his trembling fingers.

The alcohol rolled around in his stomach, pushing up against the edges of his body like water filling a pitcher. It was as hot as lava when his skin was as cold as ice, and the two extremes made him feel like he was going to puke. Or maybe he wanted to puke because he had drunk alcohol meant for someone with a higher tolerance than he had and he didn't have anything else in his stomach. He probably should have grabbed food instead of the glass bottle, but he had made his choice and he was dealing with it. He was letting the nausea sap at his strength and swirl his thoughts. He could groan in pain, but what would that do? He was alone. He already knew he was in pain, so he didn't need to inform anyone else of it. There was no one to complain to or beg to hold him. All he had was himself and the bottle that was doing more harm to him than help. He was starting to realize why people called it a vice, and starting to understand less why people like his father put up with it.

He had stolen the bottle from his father. He had marched right into his father's office to tell the man about something, but when he found an empty chair behind a cluttered desk, his vision trailed around for something to take. He was tempted to steal some money from the safe sitting behind his father's desk, but the brown painted steel trap made his eyes water and his anger flared. He settled for trifling through his father's mini-fridge, taking the first few drinks he could. He grabbed a couple of energy drinks that his father used to drink before going to the gym, but he also found his finger wrapping around cold glass that belonged to an alcoholic beverage his father cradled like medicine during the long nights. He took it all, marching out of his father's office without shutting the door behind him. He deposited all of the things he had stolen outside on the stairs that led to the dumpsters and alleyway behind the diner. He pushed the energy drinks to the side, and started sipping on the liquor he had stolen. The fact that he stole it didn't make it taste any better, but he refused to let it go to waste. He slowly downed the thing, the liquid level dropping closer and closer to the bottom.

It's almost gone now. He had been outside drinking for a few hours, so it was inevitable that he would run out. He wished it saddened him, but he was ready for the alcohol to be gone. He didn't want to drink it anymore. Everyone told him that alcohol was supposed to make him happier and lighter. All he felt was sick. He felt heavy and lethargic and nauseous. The sadness he had been trying to drink away hadn't left him. If anything, it had grown more permanent. What had been a few frazzled sparks too close to fireworks, a burning anger ready to explode like a bomb, was now a heavy stone sinking to the bottom of the river, dragging him down with it so water filled his lungs. He could hardly breathe, and the liquid fire he was drinking didn't make his endeavor to get oxygen inside him any easier.

He was pretty sure he was crying. His eyes were burning as harshly as his throat was, and he could barely keep them open as his vision blurred. He wasn't sure if that was because the tears were already flowing or if it was because of the drunken haze he was desperately trying to give in to. A hiccup ran up his body, tasting like saturated vomit when he allowed it to fall past his lips. He wasn't sure if the hiccup came from the sobs threatening him or the alcohol that was already torturing him. It was a terrible experience, and he almost found himself wishing his father experienced this exact level of pain and sadness every time he lifted a bottle to his lips.