The Bottle

A boy takes a dangerous walk.

THE BOTTLE

A STORY BY GREG KLEPPER

I HATE MY LIFE.

 

       I cant take it.

 

             ...I need to get out of here...

 

                                  I start walking. 

I pass my sister's boyfriend on the overpass. 

He's 6'4 and his name is Todd.

He looks down at me, smiles and says "Hey little guy." 

I don't say anything.  

He's the last person I want to see.

 

  I spend the next ten minutes wondering if I had hurt his feelings. 

And wondering if I even could hurt his feelings. 

If he would just end up disliking me even more for it... 

 

I keep walking. 

I pass the pizza place. 

My older brother works there as a delivery boy. 

He also sells weed.  

He tells me it's stressful. 

I tell him he doesn't know what stressful is. 

He calls me a little f****t. 

I go break something of his and eventually he hits me.  

I hate my brother.  

 

            I've been walking about ten minutes now.

I pass the baseball fields where the little leaguers play every Saturday. 

My parents signed me up for little league once in the third grade against my will.  

Everyone on my team spoke Italian.  

It took my mother three games to realize how miserable I was.  

She finally let me quit, then signed me up for basketball one week later.  

 I hate my parents.   

 

  I pass a strip of stores. 

I buy a bag of chips.  

I eat them all before I even get to the next block and let the bag drop onto the sidewalk.  

Then a cop pulls up beside me, and says "Pick it up."

"I'm sorry." I say as my leg begins to shake.  "I wasn't thinking."

"Pick it up." The cop ordered.  His partner in the passenger's seat just laughs.

I walk back a few steps, pick up the bag and throw it in the trash can.

"You've got no respect.." He says,  "there's a garbage can right there." 

 

Then a group of older kids walk by. 

I hear them laughing as they pass. 

I Hate Myself.

 

Then one head turns back at me and smiles.  

It’s a face I've seen before. 

 His name is Atty Palmer.  

He was the first real boy to make my sister cry.  

The first since the time my brother Chris pushed her down a flight of stairs.  

 

The sad thing is that Atty didnt even know my sister. 

They had never even spoken.  

Pathetic...

She used to go on and on about how beautiful he was...

How no girl would ever appreciate him as much as she could...

And how she knew he'd never consider her,

 It’s sad to me.

 She’s a w***e now because of it.

 

 The cops let me go.  

And I keep on my way.  

 

It's pure magnetism now. 

Just straight ahead. 

I feel more desperate with every step...

I feel the sky begin to shrink and my throat begin to tighten...

What is this going to do? 

I keep walking...

 

Where is this America that every Simon and Garfunkel song my stupid father used to play made out to be so beautiful and pure? 

Why do I keep looking?

 

      I keep walking.

I need an escape, a bottle, a joint, a cigarette...anything.

 

The last time I tried to bum a cigarette the woman asked me for ID.  

It was embarassing.  I look fifteen. 

I am fifteen.  

I dont blame her...I'm a little boy. 

 

 I keep going...

There's nothing back there for you, I tell myself.

  

Who cares how long it waits for you?, I ask myself. 

 

It was then I stumble over the small pink box.

 

  I catch my balance and look down at what looks like the back of a bottle of champagne.

Something in me says "Pick it up!". 

I do. 

I can tell instantly from the weight that it's far from empty, but as I turn the box around I see that the bottle's still sealed.

Not only that, but the plastic box it's in is still sealed as well. 

I gaze around, looking for the one who had left this for me.

There's no one.

 I've never needed anything more than this. Thank you. 

 

I turn back. 

I get back to the baseball fields. 

I take the dirt path behind them and enter the playground. 

Nobody's there.  It starts to rain. 

I love it.  

The rain picks up and I crawl underneath the little wooden bridge on the jungle gym. 

I sit with my legs crossed and warm my arms up inside my hoodie for a moment.

I peel off the price sticker sealing the box. 

I remove the bottle from the box. 

I remove the cap. No psst.  

No cork.  This was for me. 

I take a giant swig.  

Delicious. I smile uncontrollably.  

            

This  reminds me  of when I was younger and I would climb into the crawlspace in our living room closet.  

Nothing but cement and insulation but I cant remember ever being so cozy.  

And I would bring my books there and read them with a flashlight.  

It was a place of my own.

 

This would be my new home, no doubt.  

The boy under the bridge.

Like the trolls in those fairy tales my mother was always too drunk to read me.  

The second swig is even more delicious. 

 

I feel something strange swirling around inside my mouth,

and I reach my index finger and my thumb into my mouth.

I pull a small folded up piece of paper out through my lips.  

And I pull the sleeves of my hoodie up to cover my hands.   

 And I nervously unfold the soggy piece of paper. 

  And the words take shape… 

 

THIS BOTTLE CONTAINS 500MG OF CYANIDE

              -  AZRAEL (AOD)                           

I couldn't help but smile. 

After all, this bottle was for me.

Reviews

[slemonade]

W-O-W. That's one intense story. It's so emotional. What a sad life for a kid to have, so much so that death is welcome to him. I didn't see any spelling errors so that's good. If there were any errors in the grammar they either a) blended in well with the story and were unnoticeable or b) came during a part when I was just to hooked on the story itself to notice. Either way, it's great work. Awesome; keep it up. :D

[Adrian X Fuentess]

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