In Which There Is Angst and Alcoholism
Title: He's a Mess
Rating: Uh...I'll go with PG-13
Fandom: none, it's all OC
Summery: An alcoholic wakes up in an ice rink
Disclaimers: uhh..none. I own everything, far as I know.
Word Count: 173
Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, the word 'hell'.
This was the last time, he always thought, it’s gone too far this time; I can’t keep this up…I’ll die. He never went through with it, though. He always went back, got drunk past the point of remembering anything and ended up somewhere else in the morning.
Today, it was an ice rink. He wakes up groggy-eyed and wondering vaguely where he is (and why he hadn’t been thrown out). Wrinkling his nose, he notices the familiar smell of vomit nearby and leans over the edge of the bench he’d apparently conked out on. There is a bad. A yellow bag. A yellow bag he’s fairly certain had been white the night before. Oh, that’s…who the hell runs this place, anyway?, he would think if he had any coherent speech anymore. Today, he decides, is the last time he wakes up in a random place with either a pile of vomit nearby or, more recently, a bag of vomit nearby. Today is the day he’ll get help, he decides.
He knows he won’t.
Rating: Uh...I'll go with PG-13
Fandom: none, it's all OC
Summery: An alcoholic wakes up in an ice rink
Disclaimers: uhh..none. I own everything, far as I know.
Word Count: 173
Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, the word 'hell'.
This was the last time, he always thought, it’s gone too far this time; I can’t keep this up…I’ll die. He never went through with it, though. He always went back, got drunk past the point of remembering anything and ended up somewhere else in the morning.
Today, it was an ice rink. He wakes up groggy-eyed and wondering vaguely where he is (and why he hadn’t been thrown out). Wrinkling his nose, he notices the familiar smell of vomit nearby and leans over the edge of the bench he’d apparently conked out on. There is a bad. A yellow bag. A yellow bag he’s fairly certain had been white the night before. Oh, that’s…who the hell runs this place, anyway?, he would think if he had any coherent speech anymore. Today, he decides, is the last time he wakes up in a random place with either a pile of vomit nearby or, more recently, a bag of vomit nearby. Today is the day he’ll get help, he decides.
He knows he won’t.