Lament of an Addict
The room was barely lit, with the exception of a single light from a lamp with no cover. Cigarette butts overflowed from an ashtray that sat on the nightstand next to the bed. And on the bed, next to empty fifths of liquor and cigarette cartons, she laid. She couldn’t tell what time it was, she had ripped out the clock once when the alarm went off. She had missed work that day and hadn’t been back since. She had taken up a few jobs here and there; just enough to pay for her small studio and her vices. The kind of jobs that helped her addictions. Bartending, serving, catering, anything that revolved around food and alcohol. She would buy the booze, but only ate if the food was free. Of course she would often steal her alcohol too, but that was only when she was desperate.
She glanced around, trying to peer through the dark. She hoped it was still early, that there was still some time left in the day to go back to sleep, that she didn’t need to get ready for the six hours of minimum wage work. And her prayers were answered. It was, or appeared, to only be around noon as she had stumbled over to her only window. She quickly returned to the bed and laid there, lost in thought and dehydration.
She planned on getting up, cleaning herself up, and looking for another line of work; a ling of work she could be proud of, that could provide her with a sense of purpose, and also to help her move out of the lonely, lowly apartment she inhabited. As she searched for her phone under the bed, she found it next to another plastic bottle of generic whiskey. She pulled both out from under the depths that was littered with trash and dirty laundry alike and stared at the bottle. “Well’, she thought, ‘one drink will set me right’. ‘If I want to get anything done I can’t afford the shakes.” She uncapped the lid, tilted it back, and pulled the trigger. Habit and muscle memory made her take more than she wanted, or more than she thought was appropriate. She switched her attention to her phone instead of addressing the amount of alcohol she had just consumed. A few missed calls and texts helped reveal the events of the night before. She started with the texts; her best friend had hit her up several times to go out, according to the texts, they had met up and got separated at some point. Her best friend had asked if she was going to go see “that one guy” and laughed, or LOL’d, calling her a slut. She always felt like he, her best friend, still wanted to be with her. They had slept together once or twice before; she couldn’t recall how many times. He told her that he was fine and that they were just friends, but she always felt like he wanted more from her. She continued to review the messages and missed calls. She had apparently met up with the guy that her friend was referring to. From the looks of it, the guy was angry with her on account that she took off without saying anything. She wasn’t sure why she would’ve left; it could have been something he said, but part of her knew that she had a habit of doing that; of taking off without saying anything to anyone. The thought of her reckless, impulsive nature made her wash it down with another drink. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the backboard of the bed.
Inhale, exhale, drink, repeat. Now that she had a stable buzz she was sipping instead of chugging. “Fuck!’, she thought, ‘only a few more hours.” She stared at her glass and then her watch bitterly as she awaited work. Most everyone uses their phones for a watch these days, but she kept to the old ways of telling time. Watching the hands go by as she watched the bottle drain away. She then got up, poured herself a glass of water, downed it, and went to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror. She was, what many would call, a wreck. She had bags under her green eyes, eyes that were red and glossy. She was skinnier than ever; her ribs weren’t showing yet, but it was getting close. Her dirty blonde hair was nappy and unkept. There was a violent shake in her hands, but that was only when she hadn’t had enough to drink; at that moment, her hands were fairly stable thanks to her liquid remedy. She looked at her reflection with disgust and a loathing only an addict or a criminal would give oneself. She shook herself awake and hopped into the shower.
She didn’t need music to shower, or a drink for that matter, but she had both. There was a leftover beer from the last time she showered, or was it from before, she couldn’t recall. Pandora played her favorite station on the bathroom countertop while her drink was resting on a counter in the shower with her. She grabbed the bar of soap and ran it over herself; over the scar she got when she was running from the cops that one blacked out night; over the bad elbow that broke when her and her ex got into their last fight; and lastly, over her numb redden face. The music played on as the ice in her glass had all but melted away. She stood there, soaking from the hot water and sulking over the way her life had turned out. Then, the thought of paying extra for the water she was wasting made her snap out of it and shut the shower off. She couldn’t afford to pay extra on her bills; not with the raising cost of cigarettes and all she spent on her alcohol. She dried off, grabbed the glass she had just emptied and went to fill it back up, forgetting to dress herself first. She thought about her life again, and again she took another deep swig. She threw on some underwear and a T-shirt, sparked another smoke, and resumed her spot on the bed.
Inhale, exhale, drink, repeat. She continued to listen to music, trying to drown out all the chaos in her mind; needless to say it barely worked. She would hear some lively song and forget her troubles, then, a song would come on that reminded her of her old flame. Not the asshole that caused her broken elbow but the one that got away. He had left her long ago, they would talk here and there, but he had moved on. At least that’s the way it felt for her. The one thing that she could remember was why he had left. He had told her that he couldn’t live with someone trapped inside the bottle. The thought made her take another deep drink.
She checked the time; she had to get ready soon. She put on her work pants and dove into her laundry pile to find a uniform. She found the least dirty of them and threw it on the bed. “One more sip”, she said out loud to herself, so she finished her glass and poured herself another one. Her breathing was inconsistent, but she figured it was because of the smoking, which made her want anther smoke. She lit one up and tried not to think of anything. And then, out of nowhere it seemed, a memory came flooding back. It was of her father, the parent she respected most. “Having fun isn’t a bad thing, relaxing isn’t either’, his voice rang in her mind as clear as the day he said it, ‘but be careful, many people think they can control their drinking and before they realize it, the drinking controls them.’ ‘Once that happens, there’s no going back.” She started to cry. She was sure that her father knew that she had an alcohol problem. She loved and respected her father so much that the thought of disappointing him made her breakdown even more. She had already finished the fifth she found and was able to locate another half empty one under her pile of laundry. She filled her glass and lit another one; inhale, exhale, drink, repeat.
She woke up late in the evening with several missed calls and one voice mail. She listened to the brief, bitter message from her employer. “We’ve given you too many chances” and “You can pick up your last check tomorrow” was all she heard. Then, without even thinking about it, she grabbed some money laying on the floor, a $10 laying under a sweater and a $20 by the T.V. stand, and took off for the liquor store. Her trip was not very long, she lived just down the street from her supplier. It was already dark out with many of her kind roaming the streets. She entered the store and waited in line for the others ahead of her. Although there were plenty of characters to observe, she paid them no heed; she was staring down at her phone. When it was finally her turn, she put on a fake smile and asked for her usual, a bottle and a pack. She knew the clerk well, the guy saw her almost everyday. “How’s it goin?” the clerk asked.
“Fine. You?” She replied.
“Thought you worked most nights? The clerk asked casually.
“Not tonight.” She avoided the topic.
“…you doin okay?” The clerk asked suddenly, taking her by surprise.
“Yeah, I’m good.” She struggled to her answer and another fake smile.
“Okay…well..here ya go.” The clerk handed her the vices with a small look of concern.
“Thanks.” she said in a calm, melancholy tone.
She walked out the door, lit one up, and slowly strolled back to her cave.
On her way back, she ran into a girl she used to be friends with; she was actually more of an acquaintance than anything. Her acquaintance gave her the most excited hug and smile. “I’m so happy to see you’, said the acquaintance, ‘I’ve been needing to see a good friend.”
“Why?’ ‘What’s up?” She asked her acquaintance.
“Well, my mother just passed away and…I dunno, it’s got me in a weird place.” Replied the acquaintance.
“I’m so sorry to hear,’ She replied, “I’ve been feeling pretty down myself lately.”
“I’m sorry to hear,’ the acquaintance said in a sorrowful manner, ‘what to talk about it.”
“I dunno,’ She said, ‘I’ve just been having a hard time.’ ‘I was just laid off at work; the manager was a perv who wouldn’t’ stop hitting on me. I complained about it but he’s related to the owner so they won’t do anything about it.” She lied.
“That’s such bullshit!,’ her acquaintance gave her a hug, ‘well if there’s anything you need just let me know.”
“Thanks, that means a lot.’ ‘Now I just have to go find another job…hopefully one where the manager doesn’t sexually harass me.” She said, almost believing her made up story.
“Well..I better go…you have my number.’ ‘Stay in touch!” The acquaintance gave her one last hug and went her separate way. As her acquaintance walked out of sight, she lit another one and made her way back with her bottle close at hand.
She threw her coat and purse on the floor as she quickly made her way to her freezer. The amount of ice she included in her drink always depended on the size of the cubes. If the cubes were smaller, she would add three or four depending on how small But she had perfected the art of filling the ice tray just right, two cubes was all she needed. Whenever she had company over, or in other words someone she planned on sleeping with, she rarely if ever entertain multiple guests, she would mix her drinks with soda or juice. But whenever she was alone, she drank it straight. The dark brown liquor made the cubes crackle and pop as she poured herself a glass. She was pacing her studio instead of laying on the bed. And instead of drinking in a melancholy manner, she was frantic. The days events had taken their toll. Her mind was racing; she was sad over her problems, being fired and living in an unstable environment; she was angry with the men in her life whom she blamed for her drinking; overall she was depressed. She started thinking more about her Ex, “Fuck him for making me want to drink in the first place; if it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t need it so badly.” She took a gulp, paced some more, and then thought about her old love. “Fuck him for not supporting me, it wasn’t my fault I needed alcohol before we met.’ ‘He should have loved me for who I am.” She finished the glass, threw in another cube, and poured herself another.
Inhale, exhale, drink, repeat. Her face was as red as an amber ale, except for her lips which had a blue hue to them, and as numb as if high on cocaine. She never really got drunk anymore, normally she just sustained a manageable buzz, but today was different. After consuming almost two fifths worth, and working on the third, she could barely stand. She sat back on the bed, leaving the glass on the T.V. stand opposite of where she sat, but she held the whiskey close at hand, taking another gulp. She felt cold and her breathing felt more off then from before; she ignored it by wrapping herself up in a blanket and taking another drink. Her mind, like her body, was swaying to and fro with thoughts that were uncommon to her. She didn’t realize it, but she had started to blame her father for her addiction. “His words of ‘wisdom’ didn’t work for me.” She said to herself as her stomach turned, vomiting on the floor. “Fuck him!’ She took another drink, thinking of her father as her eyes started to roll in the back in her head. She then started to think of everyone in her life, friends and family alike, “Fuck that bitch of sister, she never understood me!” Drink. “Fuck my so-called friends, they only care about themselves!” Drink. “Fuck my mother! She always loved my sister more than me.” Drink. Drink. Drink.
She tried to stand up but fell instantly, as if her limbs were limp and as numb as her mind. She had lost consciousness. She fell on the pile of puke she had just made. Her whole body started to convulse violently, her teeth clenched tightly, and her eyes turned white as they rolled completely in the back of her head. After the seizure had ended, she retched again, but this time she was laying on her back and started to choke. She unknowingly gasped for air, but it was futile. She struggled for a moment, but then the light in her faded away, heading into the unknown.
They came for her two days later. Her best friend had tried calling and texting her on day one, and by day two he was worried so we went to her apartment. He was able to peer through the window and saw her purse and part of her leg outstretched past the bed that was parallel to the window. As he waited outside of her studio, while the coroners conducted their business, the police asked him questions. The questions were basic, standard questions. “How do you know her?’ “How long have you known her?” “Did she appear to suffer from alcoholism?” And other questions of that nature. He answered as best he could, confirming that she did have an addiction. As he waited, the coroners rolled the covered body out of that little hell hole of hers, loaded her onto the vehicle, and drove away. As the police were leaving, as her best friend sat with tears in his eyes and his hands on his head, one older police officer approached him. “Hey kid’, the old cop said, ‘I know this sucks but for what it’s worth, it looks like she left you something.” The cop handed him a letter that was addressed to him.
It appeared that the letter was written a long time ago, and had been collecting dust in her pile of files that she kept next to the T.V. stand, but the words seemed to shed light on how she was feeling before she died. The letter read:
To my best friend,
You have always been there for me, even when I know I haven’t always been there for you. I wish I had the courage to face my fears, to fight my demons, but I don’t. I think that’s why I’m writing you this letter as I can’t bear to face you like this, exposed and vulnerable. I’m not sure if I will ever give this to you, I want to, I would rather be able to talk to you openly, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do so. I have a problem and I can’t control it. I know I drink too much, but I can’t help it. I start to think about things that don’t matter, things like where I live or what kind of job I have, or things that matter like how my sister and I don’t get along or how my mother and I don’t either, and other bullshit. It just brings me down, makes me want a drink. I’m not strong enough to overcome it. I wish I was. But I’m not. I want you to know that I am deeply sorry for any pain I may have caused you. I always got the feeling that even though you said that we were just friends that you still cared for me, more than a friend would. I wish I could have felt the same, and honestly I think I do, but I’m good enough for you. You are such a great guy, I know you can do better. I’m too much trouble and would hate myself for burdening you. I wish the best for you and know that you will find the happiness I never will. Please know that know that no matter what happens, I love you and always will.
He was barely able to finish the letter. He wasn’t sobbing but he also wasn’t able to hold back the tears either. “Quite a shame isn’t it…” The older cop paused as if he was going to say something else, but lowered his head and walked away. Her best friend folded the letter and left the somber scene.
In a dive not far away from her lowly, lonely studio apartment he sat. Her best friend was sitting on a stool furthest away from the door and the happy drunks, sipping on a glass of whiskey, not the kind she used to drink, it was a shelf or two above her brand. He watched as the other bar rats were drinking away the day; some were laughing and leaning on each other deep in small talk, while others were silently enjoying their after work drink. He wondered what they were all thinking. Maybe some of the patrons were going through a similar experience or had gone through one before; maybe the ones laughing were actually hiding the pain of someone they lost, or maybe one of the solo drinkers was there just to avoid going home to an abusive partner. Then he thought the worst, maybe most of them were there because they were true addicts, lying, cheating and stealing just to get their fix. He held his glass as a memory flashed in his mind. He only recalled the most important details from that night. It had started out slow, a couple of shots and a cold one, but escalated from there. He couldn’t deny that he was intoxicated himself, most of the night was a blur, but he could never forget the embarrassment he felt. After their first few, she had started downing more and more, and with each drink she grew louder and louder, more sensitive to what others were saying, or what she thought people were saying. He had told her to slow down in a playful way. “Your goin alil tough on the liq tonight aren’t ya?”
“So? What’s it to you?” She said defensively.
“Nothing.’ ‘I’m just saying maybe you should slow down a bit.”
“Think I can’t handle it?’ She glared at him, ‘you sound like my fucking mother!”
“I didn’t say that’, he was lost for words, ‘what does your mother have to do with anything?”
“Fuck you!” She stormed off.
It was a couple of hours later that he ran into her again. She was sitting next to another man. They were flirting with each other, groping and giggling. He watched as she whispered in the strangers ear, both of them drinking and smiling heavily. The stranger got up and walked away. She sat there with little to no emotion on her face as her best friend approached her. “Well..I’m going to go.’ ‘take care of yourself okay.” But as he was walking away she followed after him, ignoring the stranger who was at the bar getting drinks. “Wait!’ ‘why are you leaving?” She said with a flirtatious smile. He was confused. This girl seemed like she wanted nothing to do with him but then acted like she really cared for him and wanted him there. “Because I’m tired.” His answer was cold but sincere.
“But I want you here.’ ‘What if I need you?” She started to puppy dog eye him, swaying her shoulders to and fro.
“Looks like you got a friend who’ll help” He nodded to the stranger who was looking over the crowd to find her, holding drinks for the both of them.
“But I may need you too.’ ‘Don’t go.’ ‘Let’s go grab a drink somewhere else, I’m over this place.” She said as she started to walk towards the exit. “What about the guy you were just talking to?’ ‘Looks like he just got you a drink.” He was trying to leave without her.
“Whatever..fuck him.” She said as if it was nothing, shrugging and smirking at him.
“I don’t want to get another drink.’ ‘I want to leave”.
“Well’, she leaned in and whispered, ‘let’s get out of here then.”
“You just can’t help it can you.” He shook his head and headed outside. She followed him out and gave him a shrug of confusion. “You play these games,’ he said, ‘like you want something more from me but then get mad when I try to play along…I don’t get it.” She had no reply. She lowered her head and started to cry profusely. “You hit on me and then go and hit on another guy…why?’ ‘What do you want?” He asked.
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“Feel like what?”
“Unhappy. I feel like I’m missing something. Like something isn’t right with me.”
“We all feel like that, but I don’t think booze and sex is going to fill that gap.’ ‘That’s your call though, you can either keep acting like this or decide to make a change.”
That was the last time he binged drank with her. They would hang out still, but he never stayed for too long. It was also the last time she hit on him as well. From that point on, she always found a new guy to talk to.
He was thinking about that memory, what the older cop had said to him, about the letter she had left, and the irony that he was drinking. He thought about her letter and the way she sounded. She was afraid to admit her problem, afraid to admit that she needed help. He wondered if that was where the difference lied. Maybe if she had felt shame for her alcoholism instead of fear she would’ve been able to seek help. Maybe the shame and the fear were intertwined, or maybe they weren’t. He was desperately trying to make her death mean something, to make sense of it all. He feared that her death didn’t mean anything and that it would never make sense. “I wonder’, he thought, ‘if alcohol was really her biggest addiction.” He finished the drink he had been working on for the past half hour, ordered another one, and headed to the bars back patio. He sat on the closest lawn chair that circled a patio table. “She didn’t think very highly of herself; she actually thought the opposite,” he said to himself as he smacked the top end of his fresh pack of smokes on his palm. He continued to ponder how she saw herself as a wretch that could not be saved, that in some weird way she deserved it all, and that maybe she did deserve it. He took a sip and gave a mournful chuckle, “the alcohol may have caused her death, but her way of thinking is what ended her life…and that happened long before she died.” He raised his head, lit one up, and stared at his glass, “I’ll give it up soon, but for now…” Inhale, exhale, drink, repeat.
Realistic Fiction
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Wow. This piece is really powerful. I really enjoyed reading it!
Thanks, I appreciate the input. I’m pretty new at all this. I know its got some grammatical issues with it but I figured I’d just get it out and see what people think.
I loved reading your short story. The repetition of “Inhale, exhale, drink, repeat” was very meaningful and I really liked how you put it at the end of your short story and how the main character’s friend was starting to start the circle again.
Your story was good; however, I do have a few suggestions. I would reread the first paragraph. It was really choppy and redundant. I would also suggest to add how the main character got into alcohol and smoking. Was this a family issue or something she picked up?