Tuesday, April 28
I watched the carbonation in my drink, the bubbles rising while my heart sinks. Swirl the glass, hear the clanking of ice as it hits each other, drink. I sit leaning against the cabinet, staring at what was once a pristine glass, but now laid on the floor were shattered pieces that represented my heart. Swirl the glass, drink. The stench of scotch, tears and sweat reeked off my clothing. Drinking what was left in the glass, I placed it on the floor. My fingers twitched, legs aching, craving more. "Two is enough," I tried convincing myself. Two is enough. Two was not enough. Because two drinks led to three. Three drinks led to four; and four drinks led to the entire bottle.
I imagined you finding me passed out on the floor of our kitchen, surrounded by shards of glass and bottles of scotch. I imagined you hauling me up in a sitting position and dumping cold water on top of me to wake me up. I imagined you yelling at me, yelling how you couldn't believe I resorted back to alcohol. Yelling that this wasn't what you wanted. But most importantly, I imagined you coming back. Or, at least I hoped you did. What a drunken, delusional mess I was.
YOU ARE READING
21 days.
Short StoryA journal. A pen. A heartbreak. A path to recovery. Not all drugs are in the form of a pill or a stick. Sometimes, it's brown eyed, kissed-swollen lips and a thumping heart.
