Cope
Just Another Escapist
Alcohol.
Water.
Lime.
Salt.
The mixture looked like diluted blood.
It tasted like flat soda mixed with antiseptic.
It burned.
Every chewed fingernail, every crack in those dry lips, the bloodshot eyes, the sleep deprived mind, all burned.
He was split between two places. He was split between two personalities.
The drunk raged, demanding more than his stomach could take.
The teetotal sneered at the pathetic attempts to make inebriation lose all its attraction.
The two argued silently within his skull and ribs. They fought in alternating heartbeats as the world he wanted so desperately to calm only insisted on tearing in half.
Two homes, two loves, two persons, two worlds.
He sat still, withholding enough energy to run several miles.
He stared, blind to the empty kitchen.
His voice rested, though a symphony of pain begged to sing.
He felt, but could not discern the emotions.
He listened, and the music soothed the pain, nerves, stress, inspired his imagination, made things surmountable.
It would lead to sleep.
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Comments (4 so far!)
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- Published 8 years ago.
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Jim Stitzel
I can relate to this. Not so much the drive to drink -- that's never been one of my vices. But that division within oneself, fighting your own mind and body for control. I can at least understand why people are driven to find refuge in substances.