As Empty As A Bottle

I wrote this a few years back for my Creative Writing class. It's about using alcohol to cope with death, more or less.

Another lonely night at the bar. I never get company when I’m out anymore. I don’t even remember what it feels like to have a best friend, let alone someone to love. All of that changed seven years ago. All of this was prior to these addictions I now cater to. It was when I had some sense of direction.

        It was so long ago, I forget what her perfume smelled like. But I know it was beautiful, just like she was. Most of my memories of her have faded terribly; they’re just small scraps of smiles and the joy that once filled my empty self.

        I took a sip from my half full shot glass, staring at the racks of liquor behind the bar. Seeing myself in the mirror, I sighed; things have seriously gone down hill in the past seven years. I was a mess, I hated my office job…

        Back when I was 14, a freshman at Teal Lake High, I knew she was sick; the doctors were always saying she was quite ill, but she’d live. That’s what they lied to me, anyway. My mother always drove my friends and me around; she never complained, I guess because we made her one of us. She could tolerate most of my music, all of my friends, even the boys I was dating. I loved her for it, and probably always will.

        When my freshman year was coming to a close, I remember getting called down to the main office. I think I was heading into my English class, but my mind’s so poisoned now, I just don’t know. I walked into the office and Mrs. Flamm was sitting at her desk with a grave expression on her face. Being so inexperienced, I didn’t think anything of it; she was the office aid everyone said was on Prozac anyway.

        “I got called down to the office,” I said, hoping to catch her attention. She didn’t answer me.

        “Mrs. Flamm?” I tried again. Her head snapped in my direction.

        “Oh yes. Your father just called. He said it’s quite important and is going to pick you up,” she explained, a bit monotone. I got a weird feeling in me; it wasn’t sorrow, it wasn’t grief, it was more like a feeling of about to… puke. I nodded and left the office, heading to my locker. I stopped in front of it, staring at the metallic green. Why was I here? I asked myself. Oh yea. Dad’s on his way. I have to put my books back. I paused. What’s my combination? I sighed.

        I don’t really remember what happened that day. I do remember we sat in the car in silence; my relationship with Rob was beyond broken, and considering I was his step-daughter, it just didn’t help matters at all. I think when my mother married him it was in sheer vain, because now that I think it through, he never liked me. When she asked him if he’d love me too, I bet he lied. He’s always lied. Why was I hated? Because I’m illegitimate to him? I hate him. Strangely enough, though, we shared the same eye colour. My mom used to joke about how we were somehow related. I think if I was related to him, I would have put myself away somewhere.

I can also remember the hospital; it was so big before us, looming in its bleak shadow, scaring me. It looked like a wild animal, crouching, waiting for me to walk inside, find devastation, and then swallow me whole once I became alone, tearful, vulnerable. I’ve always had a hate for hospitals, even though I could never place why. I guess the thought of being away from everyone, isolated, in this terrible building, along with the terrible aroma and aura of death… and the doctor’s lying. They told us relapse couldn’t happen to her. Maybe they’re the ones related to Rob; they all lie.

        Once inside the pasty building, we were taken to the emergency room. What happened next will always be burned into my mind. It’s like a sickness that will never go away; a continuous disease plaguing my childhood memories. Every time I think of my mother, I see her sickly body, still so young, lying in the cold hospital bed. Everything the doctors told us didn’t make sense; they were contradicting what they had told us less than one year ago. I remembered them saying she stopped before I was born, and never started again. Now they’re saying she had been for almost 6 months. I especially was hurt; my mother who loved me with all her heart was dying. They let me in her room to see her, even though they didn’t know what was killing her. Lies, I say.

        I flagged down the young bartender, needing a refill of Vodka in my little cup of miseries. He gave me a concerned look, the look one of your peers does in a warm high school environment when you tell them your bad habits, as he added more clear liquid into the cup, making it swirl about with a few drops from the previous rounds. I tried to give him a convincing smile, trying to make it scream ‘I am indeed okay! No worries!’; I don’t really think it worked though, for he turned and shook his head, walking away.

        In my mother’s room, I remember hearing the only reason she was alive was the machines she was hooked up to; there had to be a million different machines in there, all making small “hum” noises, and with tons of little glowing lights. So she’s dead? I thought to myself, you terrible people lied again?! Seeing this, I freaked out and had a nervous breakdown. I laid there on the floor, screaming, crying, the reality that she was in fact dead hit me harder then a ton of bricks. Then I can remember being dragged from the room after the machines went silent, and the little lights died off.

        That night at home, my dad stopped talking to me. He didn’t say anything, not a hello, or an are-you-okay. He accused me off actually killing her, something about me “pulling the plug”. I didn’t see how I did; she was breathing in artificial life, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to see the woman I looked up to suffer. That couldn’t be murder. It just couldn’t be.

That night I also received a call from him. He was the boy I had loved with all of my heart; he meant everything to me, and he had liked me too, even though we weren’t together.

        “Kyra, I heard you got called out of school early today,” he began, “are you okay?” I didn’t say anything.

        “Kyra, are you okay?” he repeated. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him; I hung up. In a few minutes he was at my door, a grave look on his face. I can, very vaguely though, remember my dad letting him inside, showing him upstairs to my room. Our eyes met and I started crying.

        To think about Mike now makes me sad. I haven’t spoken to him in just under seven years, when he broke up with me. It’s your fault, I silently yelled at my shot glass, if I hadn’t had relation to you, he’d still be with me. And everything would be okay. Mom would still be here, too, d****t!

        “She’s dead,” I wailed into his chest, “She’s dead.” He held me close, stroking my hair.

        “It’s okay, I’m here for you,” Mike answered, soothingly. I held him tight; I loved him so much then.

        “Do you know what happened?” He lifted my head and met my eyes.

        “Alcohol. They said she had a relapse. I didn’t even know she drank! I mean, they told me she drank until she was pregnant with me, but stopped. Now the said she’s been drinking for 6 months. I should’ve noticed, I was so close to her.”

        The rest of the night is all blurry now, drowning in different flavours of hard liquor. I can remember that week we talked and I got my first kiss, too. We had been dating for almost a month, and then he found out I was drinking. He was against things like such; he even told me that too and I didn’t listen. It was my fault I lost him. But it was the stress of my mother’s death and Rob ignoring me; I couldn’t handle it. I screwed my own life over, no matter what anyone said to me.

        A man walked into the bar and sat next to me. He ordered the same thing I was drinking, and rested his head in his hands. A deep sigh escaped his lips, his face looking more drawn and old then it should have been; he seemed to be in his mid or late forties, but his face made him seem around sixty.

        “How are you Rob?” the bartender asked.

“Rough day,” he muttered, “Really rough day.” The bartender handed him his drink. I found myself looking at the two of them; is that my step-dad? And… Mike? Very briefly I met eyes with the older man; the shade of blue in his eyes seemed vaguely familiar.

        “Can I have one, miss?” he asked, gesturing toward the half empty pack of cigarettes before me. I nodded and handed one to him, relocking eyes with him.

        “Rob?” I tentatively asked. He gave me a look of bewilderment.

        “Kyra? I thought you died years ago!” he replied, astonished. The bartender was looking at me, I noticed from the corner of my eye.

        “So did I,” he answered, “I’ve missed you.” I said nothing.

        “I’m not talking to you though. You did kill her. And you know it.” Rob took his drink to a table far from the bar. I stared at Mike.

        “What happened?” he asked. I thought long and hard about his question.

        “It all started when I… well, we… were freshman at Teal Lake High…”

Author's Note

I've never liked the way I ended this. Suggestions? :)