Drink

      It burned. The sickly liquid gushed down her throat. It was exciting, thrilling. He looked at her, proud, for one is always proud of one’s daughter when she takes her first drink. Only not really. The first time she screamed, disgusted. So was he, for it made no sense how one could think anything other than the best of such a drink. She remembered this as she drank. She couldn’t stop, desperate to prove she could be just as good as him, desperate to imitate and follow anything he did. Secretly, she could tell he liked it. The smile growing on his lips as she took another sip of the stuff made her feel so worthy.

      Her throat got used to the burn, adjusting to the taste, loving it. Her senses tingled with enjoyment as time passed further, more blank spots in her memory. Vague references to psychedelic colours and flashing lights flashed through her mind. He dragged her home; reminiscent of the times he slept in the rain, too mindless to open a front door.

      The happiness escalated. A constant party of emotions, reactions to the dizziness of life filled the room. She loved the feeling of losing control, of letting herself do as she pleased. No one to tell her she was wrong, because she couldn’t hear them. She could jump to the music in the background, the beauty ringing in her ears. She could do anything.

      Then one day she woke up, and it all ended, pain throbbing through her head, through her mind. She forgot all about how she came to this point, desperately searching for the high she felt the last time. Falling into nights alone with her drinks wondering why she can’t stop. He never changed, smiling every time she asked for another, insulted every time she didn’t.

      She’d listen to stories about how she’d be amazing when she was older; doing all the things he did, letting the nights waste away along with the booze that’s supply never seemed to end. The drinks seemed to change, getting stronger, stronger.

      She remembers a night she sat down on the cold pavement, wasted. It was 1a.m. and she hadn’t the faintest where she was. The rest of the night is a gaping hole in her thoughts, incapable of becoming reality, because it disappeared with the stars when the sun came the coming morning.

      She remembers nights where she’d take a glass to bed, just so she could assure herself she’d get a bit in the morning, despite the fact she believed it in herself that she could stop. From that moment in the beginning, she couldn’t ever stop.