By midnight, I've convinced myself I don't have a drinking problem at all. If I did, I wouldn't have been able to quit cold turkey like I did. I'm not having the shakes or whatever alcoholics have when they quit cold turkey. I just need to cut back on my drinking. One drink or two at night before I go to sleep is fine. It's no big deal. Everyone drinks.
I sit up in bed, my decision made, my hands already reaching for my shoes. The liquor store three blocks away is open for a couple more hours.I've walked past it a hundred times in the past few weeks, always keeping my eyes forward, always telling myself I'm stronger than this, that I can resist.
And I did.
And by doing that, I proved to myself I don't have a drinking problem. Not like other people do. I can put it down anytime I want to.
My feet know the way to the liquor store even though I'm trying not to think about where I'm going, what I'm doing. Three blocks. Turn left at the intersection. Past the closed gas station. Past the empty parking lot. There it is. The bright fluorescent lights cutting through the darkness, the only thing open on this empty street.
I pause outside, my hand on the door handle. This is the moment. I can still turn back. I can still walk away.
But I don't.
Instead, I push open the door. The bell chimes welcoming me. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and bright, making me squint. The floor is sticky under my shoes, decades of spilled beer and mopped-over messes. A tired-looking clerk glances up from his phone, registers my presence, goes back to scrolling.
I walk down the whiskey aisle like I'm in a trance. My feet know where to go even though I've never bought liquor from this particular store. The bottles are organized by price, from top shelf down to bottom shelf, and I don't even look at the expensive stuff.
I reach for the Jim Beam. Cheap and familiar and exactly what I need. The bottle is heavy in my hand. The glass is cool against my palm. The liquid inside sloshes slightly when I shift my weight.
Fuck. You're really doing this. You're really throwing everything away. Three weeks sober. Three weeks of work. All of it for nothing. You're a sorry son-of-a-bitch.
I carry the bottle to the counter. The clerk doesn't even look at my face, just scans the barcode and tells me the price. I pay in cash, crumpled bills from my pocket.
He puts it in a paper bag without being asked, his movements automatic. How many drunks has he served tonight? How many desperate people has he watched buy their poison?
"Have a good night," he says, the words meaningless.
I walk out with the bottle in its paper bag, the weight of it familiar and comforting.
The walk back to the motel is different from the walk there.
My pace is faster now. My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding. Part of me is screaming to throw the bottle away, to smash it on the sidewalk and watch it shatter. Part of me is already eagerly anticipating that first swallow, already feeling the delicious burn.
What would Ivan think if he could see you right now?
The thought of Ivan makes me walk faster, makes me want to get back to the privacy of my room before I fall apart completely. I let myself into my room, the key shaking in my hand. The room is dark and I don't turn on the lights. I don't want to see my reflection in the mirror, don't want to see what I'm becoming.
I go straight to the bathroom and sit down on the cold tile floor, my back against the door. I set the bottle in front of me and stare at it. The amber liquid glows in the dim light of the bathroom. My mouth waters involuntarily. My hands tremble as I reach for it.
I don't have to open it to know exactly how it will taste. I've drunk enough Jim Beam in my life to remember every detail. The first swallow will burn going down, harsh and punishing, exactly like I deserve. It will hit my empty stomach and spread warmth through my chest, false comfort spreading through my veins. By the third drink, my shoulders will unclench for the first time in days. By the fifth, the voices will start to fade into background noise. By half a bottle, there will be nothing but warmth and blessed silence.
You don't have to do this. You've made it this far. Three weeks is a long time. Don't open it. Walk away. Call someone. Call Ivan. Call Mick. Call the number on that card. Don't do this to Ivan. Don't open the damn bottle. Remember the look in Ivan's eyes. Remember.
But I can already feel the burn in my throat even though the bottle is still sealed. I can already feel the warmth spreading through my limbs. My body remembers everything, even when my mind is trying desperately to resist. It remembers how good it feels to let go. How easyit is to stop fighting. How simple everything becomes when you just surrender to the craving.
One drink. Just drink one. You can stop after one. You have control. You're not like those other people. You don't need to go to meetings. You can handle this.
That's the lie I tell myself over and over.
The seal cracks with a soft sound when I twist the cap, like a bone breaking, like something final. The familiar smell hits me full force now—rich and sharp and overwhelming, filling my nose, my lungs. My face leans toward it like a plant toward sunlight.
I bring the bottle to my lips with shaking hands.
The first swallow burns exactly like I knew it would. Fire down my throat, liquid heat spreading through my chest. The second swallow is easier, goes down smoother. The third is almost pleasant.
I don't stop at one drink.
I drink until the edges of the room start to blur, until the hard lines of reality go soft. I drink until I can't feel the cold tile under me anymore. I drink until the voices in my head fade to a distant murmur.
