I am currently in University and am doing a creative writing piece. I was just wondering if any of you would have anything to say about them. Please not that they do not have titles as of now. The first one was from school last year when the story had to be based around the concept of belonging while the second one is just something I thought of. Constructive criticism please.
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As long as I have been able to remember, I have drunk.
I think it was caused by my parents who would often end the day by drinking till they forgot all of their worries and did they have worries to forget! They believed that the best way to approach a situation was to drink until they forgot, waiting till the last minute, when they would finally have to do something.
I still remember their apartment from so many years ago. The stained brown carpet, the scuff marks on the walls and the massive cargo trains that passed the apartment block so close that the ornaments would shake and dust would succumb to gravity and fall back down to earth.
But all of this didn’t matter as long as there was alcohol in the liquor cabinet. It was usually the cheap stuff that lingered on their breath for hours on end. Just thinking about it brings the smell to my nostrils. The dank, tepid breath that would make you want to gag.
All in all, I was an unhappy kid. I was unable to go to friends houses as I had no way of getting home. Both of my parents received DUI after DUI until it became cheaper and easier to just stop driving. And no one wanted to come to my place after school as we lived in the south side of town. Cheaper rent meant more booze.
All in all, even without drinking, alcohol was an omnipotent force in my life that directed the way that I would live. When I moved out of home after 18 years of oppression under the bottle, it still would not let me go. It started off with a drink to finish the night, a simple way of relaxing with an arm around my girlfriend, but nowhere near the amount of my parents. I will admit that I enjoyed alcohol. I loved the taste of it, coating my throat in pure euphoria and the warmth that it delivers to my core when I have a sip. Life was great, as long as I kept drinking in moderation.
But then I got laid off at work and my slow spiral into the depths of alcoholism began. I would go to the liquor store with the money I got from centre link and spend about half on drinks, knowing that I needed that money for food and rent. It tore at my conscience every night until an inebriating haze would settle over my senses, liberating myself from my common sense. The type of alcohol did not matter, as long as it gave me the buzz I needed.
Vodka.
Beer.
Spirits.
Rum.
Whiskey.
I drank them all and as the drinking accumulated my life got worse and worse. I lost my apartment, my car and my girlfriend and this made me drink evermore. It was a vicious cycle that took me to the edge of my life.
I was alone. I had no hope of salvation and in desperation I turned my back on morals, ethics and possibly life itself.
I attempted to move forward in my life but I just couldn’t. I took several different courses in dealing with alcoholism but it was so hard. Throwing away such a significant part of my life is harder than I ever thought possible, despite knowing that it was not good for me.
The bottle had become a slave driver, cracking it whip with such ferocity that I had no way of relinquishing its grip. Instead of owning the alcohol, it owned me.
In my happy stupor, I came to a conclusion. It was all my partners fault. She had seen my parents drink and vowed never to let it happen to me! But she did!
And when she couldn’t face me, she deserted me, throwing me out of her life a faulty toy. I whipped myself into a frenzy of anger, hate and desperation. Some part of me knew that I was just making excuses but I continued anyway. I silenced that nagging voice in my head and gave myself to hate. And I drank until I had enough liquid courage to confront her. Silence her. Make her pay.
I found her home and raved like a madman. I threw rocks through the windows, shattering both glass and my self-respect at the same time. I ranted and raved until my throat grew hoarse and when they tried to stop me, I pulled out a knife.
I only remember a flash of images now. A slash of a knife. A throw of a punch. The crying of my partner with the whole ordeal being painted in a horrible blood-red. The last thing I remember being a fist crashing into my nose and myself falling to the ground.
The police were called and while they read me my rights, I gained a clarity that had evaded me all night. I was in a pit. A pit of my own depression that only an addict can know. Fit only for the meanest and rotten of society and I was in the dankest and darkest corner of it. I had no hope. There was no God to guide me and no friends left to assist.
I was discharged later that day with a trial date and returned home. Immediately I went to the liquor cabinet, more out of habit than need. I was about to take a sip when I caught myself in the mirror and I finally had a good look at myself and found that I was almost identical to the mirror. Its cracks were mirrored in the trenches across my face. The dim lighting was shown in my grey hair. The yellow tinge was the same as my lifeless skin. And my breath fogged up the glass, like a poisonous mist that threatened to choke me. It was the same dank, tepid breath that would make you want to gag.
I had no one. Not a living soul to help me and comfort me.
I am now required to attend Alcoholics Anonymous due to my assault charges. I am required to attend these meetings during the period of 6:00 to 8:30 every evening of every Wednesday of every week of every month until I got off the bottle.
Its drab yellow walls are peeling and all of the chairs are creaky, threatening to break at any moment and I only have one thing to say.
““Hi. My name is Andrew and I am an alcoholic,†I would state in a monotone of boredom and resignation.
“Hello Andrew,†they would reply.
“I am here because I made the mistake of drinking and I finally asked myself a question. Did I belong to the bottle or did the bottle belong to me? As long as I have been able to remember, I have drunk...â€
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I dart around a corner and delve underneath a low awning, beckoning the shadows to hide me. I knew these streets well and knew that there was no hiding place from someone that is determined to find you. I knew that you can stall it but not stop it. I knew this because it was my home.
I slow down my breathing with difficulty. In and out. In and out. I may have slowed down my breathing but my heart was beating loud enough that it should be heard from a street away. I will myself to become part of the wall. My mottled-grey coat helped me break up my silhouette to make me harder to see and embraced the shadows for any help it will give.
I stand absolutely still, knowing that any movement right now could betray me. My moving may dislodge any number of piles of trash, causing them to cascade to the ground and alert my followers. It may also allow their peripherals to catch a quick glimpse of something that isn’t quite right.
My eyes are constantly moving, scanning the ground in-front of me. I see everything but my head never moves. Practice has taught me the benefits of seeing but no seeing.
But my ears are what I am placing the most value in. They are listening for sounds that may reveal a threat.
Drain pipes.
Footsteps.
Cars.
Dull chatter.
These are the sounds I know. This brings me comfort. Anything else and I would have to make a choice. Run and hope my swift feet carry me away from my pursuers or stay where I am and pray my years or learning to remain unnoticed will keep me hidden.
I stand still for god knows how long. I can feel a rock in the bottom of my shoe and I have a massive desire to remove it but I know that it would be a reckless act. It would simply make it easier to convince myself that I should remove any further aggravations. And no matter how quietly I could remove the pebble, it would be the action itself that would give me away. I end up just gritting my teeth and putting up with it.
Almost as soon as I make that decision not to act, I know it has paid off. I hear footsteps pounding down the pavement mere meters from me. Had I been removing the pebble from my shoe, I would have definitely been found.
That said, some sixth sense seemed to tell him that someone was hiding there. He cautiously entered the alleyway and cast his eyes around. I saw him looking carefully and knew that he believed that his prey was nearby. He cast his eyes directly over me and found that I was staring into his eyes. They were kind and gentle enough but I knew they were looking for me and I knew exactly what he was going to do if he caught me.
Any movement now would be fatal. Even lowering my eyes could cause a small involuntary movement of the head. That would be all that it would take to find me. I could close my eyes but I couldn’t. I just kept staring.
He started moving slowly in my direction, though I was confident that he didn’t know I was here... yet.
Suddenly a bin 20 meters up the alley from me toppled, scattering garbage everywhere. It was probably knocked over by some cat or dog but I saw it as a message from god. My pursuer got distracted and glanced up at the bin, destroying his concentration. He cast a single glance back into my web of shadows and departed up the alley, running away in pursuit of who he believed was the maker of that sound. Me.
I suddenly felt tightness in my chest and realised that I had been instinctively holding my breath. I exhale and the pressure recedes. The footsteps have departed into the distance now and though I was sure he wasn’t too far away, I was confident that I was safe for a little while.
The pebble in my shoe quickly becomes apparent again. Still pleased with my previous success, I take this opportunity to reward myself. I feel the relief as my foot comes free of the shoe. I wriggle my toes and shake the shoe upside down to remove the pebble.
I am just moving back into my hiding spot when I hear a man yell “GOTCHA!â€
My head spins and I look exactly like a deer caught in the headlights of an unfortunate car. Standing a mere 30 meters away is my stalker. He must have doubled back to see if I made a stupid mistake. I fell right into his trap and if I had had more time, I would have berated myself for making such a rookie mistake.
I bolt. He pursues. I know that he is unarmed but he won’t need a weapon if he catches me and it’s only a matter of time. When I escaped previously, I had a larger lead and a good break in the traffic. Despite the fact I was about to be caught, I smiled. In a way it would be a relief.
After all… it was only a game of tag.
----------
PLease tell me what you think of them. I know they are not the greatest but I think they are alright.
-----------
As long as I have been able to remember, I have drunk.
I think it was caused by my parents who would often end the day by drinking till they forgot all of their worries and did they have worries to forget! They believed that the best way to approach a situation was to drink until they forgot, waiting till the last minute, when they would finally have to do something.
I still remember their apartment from so many years ago. The stained brown carpet, the scuff marks on the walls and the massive cargo trains that passed the apartment block so close that the ornaments would shake and dust would succumb to gravity and fall back down to earth.
But all of this didn’t matter as long as there was alcohol in the liquor cabinet. It was usually the cheap stuff that lingered on their breath for hours on end. Just thinking about it brings the smell to my nostrils. The dank, tepid breath that would make you want to gag.
All in all, I was an unhappy kid. I was unable to go to friends houses as I had no way of getting home. Both of my parents received DUI after DUI until it became cheaper and easier to just stop driving. And no one wanted to come to my place after school as we lived in the south side of town. Cheaper rent meant more booze.
All in all, even without drinking, alcohol was an omnipotent force in my life that directed the way that I would live. When I moved out of home after 18 years of oppression under the bottle, it still would not let me go. It started off with a drink to finish the night, a simple way of relaxing with an arm around my girlfriend, but nowhere near the amount of my parents. I will admit that I enjoyed alcohol. I loved the taste of it, coating my throat in pure euphoria and the warmth that it delivers to my core when I have a sip. Life was great, as long as I kept drinking in moderation.
But then I got laid off at work and my slow spiral into the depths of alcoholism began. I would go to the liquor store with the money I got from centre link and spend about half on drinks, knowing that I needed that money for food and rent. It tore at my conscience every night until an inebriating haze would settle over my senses, liberating myself from my common sense. The type of alcohol did not matter, as long as it gave me the buzz I needed.
Vodka.
Beer.
Spirits.
Rum.
Whiskey.
I drank them all and as the drinking accumulated my life got worse and worse. I lost my apartment, my car and my girlfriend and this made me drink evermore. It was a vicious cycle that took me to the edge of my life.
I was alone. I had no hope of salvation and in desperation I turned my back on morals, ethics and possibly life itself.
I attempted to move forward in my life but I just couldn’t. I took several different courses in dealing with alcoholism but it was so hard. Throwing away such a significant part of my life is harder than I ever thought possible, despite knowing that it was not good for me.
The bottle had become a slave driver, cracking it whip with such ferocity that I had no way of relinquishing its grip. Instead of owning the alcohol, it owned me.
In my happy stupor, I came to a conclusion. It was all my partners fault. She had seen my parents drink and vowed never to let it happen to me! But she did!
And when she couldn’t face me, she deserted me, throwing me out of her life a faulty toy. I whipped myself into a frenzy of anger, hate and desperation. Some part of me knew that I was just making excuses but I continued anyway. I silenced that nagging voice in my head and gave myself to hate. And I drank until I had enough liquid courage to confront her. Silence her. Make her pay.
I found her home and raved like a madman. I threw rocks through the windows, shattering both glass and my self-respect at the same time. I ranted and raved until my throat grew hoarse and when they tried to stop me, I pulled out a knife.
I only remember a flash of images now. A slash of a knife. A throw of a punch. The crying of my partner with the whole ordeal being painted in a horrible blood-red. The last thing I remember being a fist crashing into my nose and myself falling to the ground.
The police were called and while they read me my rights, I gained a clarity that had evaded me all night. I was in a pit. A pit of my own depression that only an addict can know. Fit only for the meanest and rotten of society and I was in the dankest and darkest corner of it. I had no hope. There was no God to guide me and no friends left to assist.
I was discharged later that day with a trial date and returned home. Immediately I went to the liquor cabinet, more out of habit than need. I was about to take a sip when I caught myself in the mirror and I finally had a good look at myself and found that I was almost identical to the mirror. Its cracks were mirrored in the trenches across my face. The dim lighting was shown in my grey hair. The yellow tinge was the same as my lifeless skin. And my breath fogged up the glass, like a poisonous mist that threatened to choke me. It was the same dank, tepid breath that would make you want to gag.
I had no one. Not a living soul to help me and comfort me.
I am now required to attend Alcoholics Anonymous due to my assault charges. I am required to attend these meetings during the period of 6:00 to 8:30 every evening of every Wednesday of every week of every month until I got off the bottle.
Its drab yellow walls are peeling and all of the chairs are creaky, threatening to break at any moment and I only have one thing to say.
““Hi. My name is Andrew and I am an alcoholic,†I would state in a monotone of boredom and resignation.
“Hello Andrew,†they would reply.
“I am here because I made the mistake of drinking and I finally asked myself a question. Did I belong to the bottle or did the bottle belong to me? As long as I have been able to remember, I have drunk...â€
----------
I dart around a corner and delve underneath a low awning, beckoning the shadows to hide me. I knew these streets well and knew that there was no hiding place from someone that is determined to find you. I knew that you can stall it but not stop it. I knew this because it was my home.
I slow down my breathing with difficulty. In and out. In and out. I may have slowed down my breathing but my heart was beating loud enough that it should be heard from a street away. I will myself to become part of the wall. My mottled-grey coat helped me break up my silhouette to make me harder to see and embraced the shadows for any help it will give.
I stand absolutely still, knowing that any movement right now could betray me. My moving may dislodge any number of piles of trash, causing them to cascade to the ground and alert my followers. It may also allow their peripherals to catch a quick glimpse of something that isn’t quite right.
My eyes are constantly moving, scanning the ground in-front of me. I see everything but my head never moves. Practice has taught me the benefits of seeing but no seeing.
But my ears are what I am placing the most value in. They are listening for sounds that may reveal a threat.
Drain pipes.
Footsteps.
Cars.
Dull chatter.
These are the sounds I know. This brings me comfort. Anything else and I would have to make a choice. Run and hope my swift feet carry me away from my pursuers or stay where I am and pray my years or learning to remain unnoticed will keep me hidden.
I stand still for god knows how long. I can feel a rock in the bottom of my shoe and I have a massive desire to remove it but I know that it would be a reckless act. It would simply make it easier to convince myself that I should remove any further aggravations. And no matter how quietly I could remove the pebble, it would be the action itself that would give me away. I end up just gritting my teeth and putting up with it.
Almost as soon as I make that decision not to act, I know it has paid off. I hear footsteps pounding down the pavement mere meters from me. Had I been removing the pebble from my shoe, I would have definitely been found.
That said, some sixth sense seemed to tell him that someone was hiding there. He cautiously entered the alleyway and cast his eyes around. I saw him looking carefully and knew that he believed that his prey was nearby. He cast his eyes directly over me and found that I was staring into his eyes. They were kind and gentle enough but I knew they were looking for me and I knew exactly what he was going to do if he caught me.
Any movement now would be fatal. Even lowering my eyes could cause a small involuntary movement of the head. That would be all that it would take to find me. I could close my eyes but I couldn’t. I just kept staring.
He started moving slowly in my direction, though I was confident that he didn’t know I was here... yet.
Suddenly a bin 20 meters up the alley from me toppled, scattering garbage everywhere. It was probably knocked over by some cat or dog but I saw it as a message from god. My pursuer got distracted and glanced up at the bin, destroying his concentration. He cast a single glance back into my web of shadows and departed up the alley, running away in pursuit of who he believed was the maker of that sound. Me.
I suddenly felt tightness in my chest and realised that I had been instinctively holding my breath. I exhale and the pressure recedes. The footsteps have departed into the distance now and though I was sure he wasn’t too far away, I was confident that I was safe for a little while.
The pebble in my shoe quickly becomes apparent again. Still pleased with my previous success, I take this opportunity to reward myself. I feel the relief as my foot comes free of the shoe. I wriggle my toes and shake the shoe upside down to remove the pebble.
I am just moving back into my hiding spot when I hear a man yell “GOTCHA!â€
My head spins and I look exactly like a deer caught in the headlights of an unfortunate car. Standing a mere 30 meters away is my stalker. He must have doubled back to see if I made a stupid mistake. I fell right into his trap and if I had had more time, I would have berated myself for making such a rookie mistake.
I bolt. He pursues. I know that he is unarmed but he won’t need a weapon if he catches me and it’s only a matter of time. When I escaped previously, I had a larger lead and a good break in the traffic. Despite the fact I was about to be caught, I smiled. In a way it would be a relief.
After all… it was only a game of tag.
----------
PLease tell me what you think of them. I know they are not the greatest but I think they are alright.
