Brigit's Flame - Amber
Reflections in Scotch
He contemplated the highball glass in front of him. The rich golden liquid inside swirled slowly as he rolled the glass between his hands. A heady scent rose as his hands' warmth reacted with the liquid's alcohol and sugars. That scent murmured to him, singing sweetly of the joys awaiting him, luring him to sip. One sip, then another, the fiery liquid sliding down his throat, burning all the way to his stomach. Oh so good, so very good....
No! He slammed the glass down. No, he was not going to do this. He was not going to start drinking before work. He went to the sink and dashed the glass' contents out. He rinsed the glass out, putting it in the dish drainer. Screwing the cap back onto the bottle, he put it in the cabinet over the refrigerator. Out of sight, out of mind. He didn't need to be constantly tempted by its presence. The tall, slender bottle with its golden siren inside...better to put it away.
The phone startled him from his reverie. He answered, and moved on from there throughout the rest of his day.
That night, he took the bottle out. He poured a couple of fingers and immediately put the rest away again. So much and no more...he could do that. A little reward for his efforts, a little relaxation after a hard day's work. The first sips were delightful - warm, soothing, easing the kinks out of his mind and soul. He grabbed some peanuts and sat down to watch t.v. He'd nuke something for dinner in a little while.
The news flowed into procedural crime dramas - CSI, Law & Order SVU, more CSI. They all looked the same to him - the cops, the locales, the bodies. They flickered in front of him, so busy and brisk, and he, in turn, became ever more lethargic. He scarcely noticed the time passing as the programs changed. He didn't catch himself at all when he got the bottle out again...this time leaving it next to him on the side table. He didn't register how he filled his glass once, twice, three more times. He never connected his decreasing focus - both visual and mental - with his lopsided proportion of alcohol to food. The fact he'd missed eating any dinner slid right past him. Then his mind slid out from under him, and he passed out.
The next morning, sunlight and noisy birds rudely interrupted his boozy coma. He got up from the chair stiffly, his muscles protesting. He stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower, dropped his clothes on the floor, and let the hot water beat down on his face and chest. It helped him regain some clarity. He performed the rest of his ablutions reasonably competently. Walking into the kitchen, it hit him that he'd missed dinner. “Well,” he thought, “no wonder that drink hit me so hard. Forgot to eat! Dodo head. That'll teach me to skip dinner.” He decided to grab a breakfast burrito on the way into work and headed toward the door. Damn, his head was fuzzy though. He hesitated. “Maybe if I have a shot it'll clear my head.” His hand was actually reaching to get a shot glass when he caught himself. He slammed the cabinet door shut and ran out his front door.
How many days like this? Two? Three? A week? All he knew is that it was finally Friday. TGIF, indeed. He stopped on the way home, knowing his bottle was empty. This time he bought three. “They're on sale, so why not? I'm going to buy them anyway at some point, might was well get the savings on it!” So laden, he returned to his home, his sanctuary, and settled in for the weekend.
The weekend was one long blur. He drank, he slept, he woke. He drank more. He ate occasionally, scrounging around on his increasingly empty shelves. He passed out on the couch, in the chair, once in the bathroom. By Sunday night, the third bottle was half empty. At this point he was unwashed, unshaven, and still in the same clothes from Friday. Except he had changed shirts - he'd thrown up at one point and had gotten some vomit on it. That had been his sole concession to cleanliness. Anything more was too much effort. It was all he could do to finally crawl into his bedroom, heave himself up onto the bed, and pass out yet again.
The light was already bright Monday morning as he wobbled into the kitchen. He sat at the kitchen table and groaned. The clanging in his head was echoed by the clamoring of his empty belly. Food seemed like so much work. He tried to rub the fog from his eyes, only partially succeeding. The realization that it was Monday was penetrating his brain now, and the prospect of getting cleaned, dressed, fed, and out the door to work seemed utterly beyond him. He grabbed the phone, punched in numbers, and hoarsely said, “Yeah, I'll be out today. Must have caught a bug this weekend. Yeah, terrible headache, and queasy too. Yeah...thanks. You too.” That was a relief. “I'll take today and get rested up, maybe send out for some Chinese, get back up to snuff. I'll go in tomorrow and stay late to make some work up. Yeah, that's a good plan. Yeah.”
And as he sat there mulling over his plan, his fine idea, he reached for the bottle. He reached and he poured and he toasted himself, praising himself for devising such a solid scheme. He raised the glass high and marveled again at the beautiful, golden liquid. He was captivated by its graceful swirls as it rotated seductively before his eyes. He watched it spin and felt his soul spin away with it. It spun away down his throat as he drank, it burnt away in the alcohol, until finally he fell forward, collapsed in supplication before his beautiful amber goddess.
***This is my entry for September, Week 4 in brigits_flame, a critical writing community with weekly topics. This week's prompt was "Amber". I hope you enjoyed it.***
He contemplated the highball glass in front of him. The rich golden liquid inside swirled slowly as he rolled the glass between his hands. A heady scent rose as his hands' warmth reacted with the liquid's alcohol and sugars. That scent murmured to him, singing sweetly of the joys awaiting him, luring him to sip. One sip, then another, the fiery liquid sliding down his throat, burning all the way to his stomach. Oh so good, so very good....
No! He slammed the glass down. No, he was not going to do this. He was not going to start drinking before work. He went to the sink and dashed the glass' contents out. He rinsed the glass out, putting it in the dish drainer. Screwing the cap back onto the bottle, he put it in the cabinet over the refrigerator. Out of sight, out of mind. He didn't need to be constantly tempted by its presence. The tall, slender bottle with its golden siren inside...better to put it away.
The phone startled him from his reverie. He answered, and moved on from there throughout the rest of his day.
That night, he took the bottle out. He poured a couple of fingers and immediately put the rest away again. So much and no more...he could do that. A little reward for his efforts, a little relaxation after a hard day's work. The first sips were delightful - warm, soothing, easing the kinks out of his mind and soul. He grabbed some peanuts and sat down to watch t.v. He'd nuke something for dinner in a little while.
The news flowed into procedural crime dramas - CSI, Law & Order SVU, more CSI. They all looked the same to him - the cops, the locales, the bodies. They flickered in front of him, so busy and brisk, and he, in turn, became ever more lethargic. He scarcely noticed the time passing as the programs changed. He didn't catch himself at all when he got the bottle out again...this time leaving it next to him on the side table. He didn't register how he filled his glass once, twice, three more times. He never connected his decreasing focus - both visual and mental - with his lopsided proportion of alcohol to food. The fact he'd missed eating any dinner slid right past him. Then his mind slid out from under him, and he passed out.
The next morning, sunlight and noisy birds rudely interrupted his boozy coma. He got up from the chair stiffly, his muscles protesting. He stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower, dropped his clothes on the floor, and let the hot water beat down on his face and chest. It helped him regain some clarity. He performed the rest of his ablutions reasonably competently. Walking into the kitchen, it hit him that he'd missed dinner. “Well,” he thought, “no wonder that drink hit me so hard. Forgot to eat! Dodo head. That'll teach me to skip dinner.” He decided to grab a breakfast burrito on the way into work and headed toward the door. Damn, his head was fuzzy though. He hesitated. “Maybe if I have a shot it'll clear my head.” His hand was actually reaching to get a shot glass when he caught himself. He slammed the cabinet door shut and ran out his front door.
How many days like this? Two? Three? A week? All he knew is that it was finally Friday. TGIF, indeed. He stopped on the way home, knowing his bottle was empty. This time he bought three. “They're on sale, so why not? I'm going to buy them anyway at some point, might was well get the savings on it!” So laden, he returned to his home, his sanctuary, and settled in for the weekend.
The weekend was one long blur. He drank, he slept, he woke. He drank more. He ate occasionally, scrounging around on his increasingly empty shelves. He passed out on the couch, in the chair, once in the bathroom. By Sunday night, the third bottle was half empty. At this point he was unwashed, unshaven, and still in the same clothes from Friday. Except he had changed shirts - he'd thrown up at one point and had gotten some vomit on it. That had been his sole concession to cleanliness. Anything more was too much effort. It was all he could do to finally crawl into his bedroom, heave himself up onto the bed, and pass out yet again.
The light was already bright Monday morning as he wobbled into the kitchen. He sat at the kitchen table and groaned. The clanging in his head was echoed by the clamoring of his empty belly. Food seemed like so much work. He tried to rub the fog from his eyes, only partially succeeding. The realization that it was Monday was penetrating his brain now, and the prospect of getting cleaned, dressed, fed, and out the door to work seemed utterly beyond him. He grabbed the phone, punched in numbers, and hoarsely said, “Yeah, I'll be out today. Must have caught a bug this weekend. Yeah, terrible headache, and queasy too. Yeah...thanks. You too.” That was a relief. “I'll take today and get rested up, maybe send out for some Chinese, get back up to snuff. I'll go in tomorrow and stay late to make some work up. Yeah, that's a good plan. Yeah.”
And as he sat there mulling over his plan, his fine idea, he reached for the bottle. He reached and he poured and he toasted himself, praising himself for devising such a solid scheme. He raised the glass high and marveled again at the beautiful, golden liquid. He was captivated by its graceful swirls as it rotated seductively before his eyes. He watched it spin and felt his soul spin away with it. It spun away down his throat as he drank, it burnt away in the alcohol, until finally he fell forward, collapsed in supplication before his beautiful amber goddess.
***This is my entry for September, Week 4 in brigits_flame, a critical writing community with weekly topics. This week's prompt was "Amber". I hope you enjoyed it.***