Free Write Friday #15: Resolve
#FWF is back for 2020 and I'm going to try something a little different now and again. After a co-worker told me about Theme Thursdays on r/WritingPrompts, I decided to give one a shot. (They're 500 word shots, centered around a theme, which I think is a good exercise in how to write something with a limited word count.) So, I'll probably be trying my hands at these now and again and if I find an actual Writing Prompt I like, I'll throw one of those up as well. In the meantime, here's my first attempt at a Theme Thursday: Resolve
His head was pounding. Nausea filled him. His gorge was rising and he was doing his best to resist the urge to vomit. He knew he should probably drink some water. he knew he should have a shower. He knew he should do many things, but instead, he was alone at the kitchen table, staring at the bottle.
It was a green bottle, about half-full of a 16 year old single malt from the Western Isles of scotland that tasted of peat and smoke. Appropriate for the burning embers of what was left of his life. It was early morning. The light was streaming in the window, catching the bottle and projecting a green reflection ontot he table. That was all that was left now. The walls of the house were bare. The furniture was all gone. The crockery in the kitchen was mostly gone. The fridge was empty. His husband was gone. Th ekids were gone. His job was hanging by a thread. All that was left was a table, a chair, him and the bottle.
He wanted to drink it. Everything else was gone. It had stripped his life down to the foundations, only the two of them were left now. He knew he had to change. He knew he couldn't go on like this, but there was a tiny part of him that just didn't care. There was a tiny part of him that wanted to open the bottle and drink the rest of it.
The phone is his pocket began to vibrate and, taking his eyes off of the bottle, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out. It was his alarm. He had an hour before he had to leave for work. An hour to take a shower, get dressed, shave- a shave, he thought, scratching his face, was in order, and make himself look as human as possible before heading to work.
Why bother? It's all going to hell anyway. He reached forward and grabbed the bottle by the neck. He pulled it across the table to him and slowly unscrewed the top. He dropped the lid ontot he table and lifted the bottle to his nose and inhaled.
God. The smell.
He breathed in again. He couldn't go on like this. If he kept drinking, he'd never stop. He had to change. It was enough.
But... the smell of it. Musky smokiness, filling his nostrils, the alcohol burning his nose hairs. God, it was delicious. It was so good. It was...
No. It was enough. He forced himself to stand and walked over to the kitchen sink. This was the last bottle of alcohol in the house. He stared down at the sink, wondering if he could actually do this. This was a 16 year old single malt scotch. It was delicious. he should really drink it- he could start then, maybe after the bottle was gone.
Enough, he thought. Then he poured the rest of the bottle down the sink.
His head was pounding. Nausea filled him. His gorge was rising and he was doing his best to resist the urge to vomit. He knew he should probably drink some water. he knew he should have a shower. He knew he should do many things, but instead, he was alone at the kitchen table, staring at the bottle.
It was a green bottle, about half-full of a 16 year old single malt from the Western Isles of scotland that tasted of peat and smoke. Appropriate for the burning embers of what was left of his life. It was early morning. The light was streaming in the window, catching the bottle and projecting a green reflection ontot he table. That was all that was left now. The walls of the house were bare. The furniture was all gone. The crockery in the kitchen was mostly gone. The fridge was empty. His husband was gone. Th ekids were gone. His job was hanging by a thread. All that was left was a table, a chair, him and the bottle.
He wanted to drink it. Everything else was gone. It had stripped his life down to the foundations, only the two of them were left now. He knew he had to change. He knew he couldn't go on like this, but there was a tiny part of him that just didn't care. There was a tiny part of him that wanted to open the bottle and drink the rest of it.
The phone is his pocket began to vibrate and, taking his eyes off of the bottle, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out. It was his alarm. He had an hour before he had to leave for work. An hour to take a shower, get dressed, shave- a shave, he thought, scratching his face, was in order, and make himself look as human as possible before heading to work.
Why bother? It's all going to hell anyway. He reached forward and grabbed the bottle by the neck. He pulled it across the table to him and slowly unscrewed the top. He dropped the lid ontot he table and lifted the bottle to his nose and inhaled.
God. The smell.
He breathed in again. He couldn't go on like this. If he kept drinking, he'd never stop. He had to change. It was enough.
But... the smell of it. Musky smokiness, filling his nostrils, the alcohol burning his nose hairs. God, it was delicious. It was so good. It was...
No. It was enough. He forced himself to stand and walked over to the kitchen sink. This was the last bottle of alcohol in the house. He stared down at the sink, wondering if he could actually do this. This was a 16 year old single malt scotch. It was delicious. he should really drink it- he could start then, maybe after the bottle was gone.
Enough, he thought. Then he poured the rest of the bottle down the sink.
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