Liquid Absolution

I heard that most people come here because the drinks were good and the prices deceptively cheap. No surprise that the place was almost always full.

My eyes fell on a young man to my left, a well-groomed, respectable-looking guy. But the slouch in his shoulders said something else about his appearance that his $80 jeans failed to mention. I watched him take the first gulp; dark liquid quickly sliding down his throat. It didn't take long for the drink to take effect.

At first he held her close, bringing her to his lips often like the glass he now clutched. The burn in his throat felt good; the tingle in his stomach rippled through his body every time she said his name and held him close. As the froth settled near the middle of the glass, his senses began to dull and the room began to spin. A warmness filled his chest and he closed his eyes, her face tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.

He tilted his head back and drained the remaining contents of the glass, holding out for every last drop. She still said his name often, but it didn't give him butterflies anymore. There was a bite in her voice that wasn't there before and the bitter after-taste of her words lingered longer than he cared to admit. The buzz was wearing off and pain began to return to his body as his nerves began to feel again. With a heavy hand he clunked the empty glass down on the table and reached for the next set of butterflies.

His expensive suit, silk tie, and shiny shoes looked out of place in this dingy public house. He sat down, neatly arranged the drinks in from of him and began in earnest.

The first glass brought diplomas, scholarships, internships. The first tastes of the real deal, the real world. The second was the interview and the job. The burn was good. This is what he wanted. The third took a bit more effort--sleepless nights, 18-hour days, endless cups of coffee, slaving away weeks and months--but he did it. The fourths, fifths, sixths brought promotions, the big desk with his name on it in the corner office with the view, the big paycheck. He was on a roll and he wasn't about to stop--gulp, gulp, gulp. But now that he was all tingly he couldn't see straight, now he couldn't remember his address, now he couldn't tell his kids apart, now he couldn't enjoy being at home anymore. Everything hinged on the next big sale, the next big push, the next big gulp. He soon spent far more time on business trips with corporate bigwigs or in the office having his numerous assistants running errands for him than in his own home. Okay maybe spending so much time with Stacey the Secretary wasn't the best idea, but it was part of the job right? His wife would never know; no harm, no foul. The kids had their toys, she had her luxury cars, they had their house in the hills; yet his wife was ready to leave him. Why? Why couldn't she see that he was still providing for the family and working hard as hell so she could have it easy?

His smartphone buzzed twice. It was already late; dinner at home would be beyond cold and she was already upset. But he could grab a bite on the way back to the office; one more dinner missed wouldn't be the end of the world. Plus, the quarterly report needed to be finished and these glasses weren't going to drink themselves.

Her clothes hung loosely from her thin frame and the mess of tangled hair covered eyes that no longer wished to be seen. She sat in silence clutching the handle of the mug in front of her. Her charred throat silently protested but her trembling hand soon won out and she threw back her drink.

High heels, designer clothes, hours of hair and makeup walked onto the stage to the roar of the fans and the endless clicking of cameras. She flashed the smile, lifted the award and thanked the fans again for their endless love and support. "I don't know where I'd be without you guys!" She lied. More screaming as she made her way off the stage.

When the lights went out and the cameras were off and the fans nowhere to be found, the sunken eyes, the heavy heart, and the empty glass remained. Fans or no fans, she knew where she would be--right here. Alone in a bar, a hand on the handle she never had. But the fans want more. And so did she.

Okay--not entirely sure how he even got in here. He couldn't have been older than fifteen: beanie, checkered Vans, energy drink in hand. He plopped his backpack on the floor and swapped his Monster for a glass of the dark stuff. Glancing around the room for prying eyes, he lifted the glass.

His eyes were now the ones doing the prying as his fingers began to type and the forbidden images began to flash before his eyes. His heart thuds heavily within his chest and his hands are sweaty as he tips the glass back further. The excitement of the burn is there but it is empty and pointless, a fire with much fuel but no warmth. But he continues to gulp down the swirling darkness at his fingertips. His head is spinning as he reaches the last drop. The glass hits the table, he gathers his things and stumbles out without paying. Maybe he'll pay later. Who knows--who cares.

"The usual?" The bartender finally got my attention.

"Umm, yeah. Yeah."

He slid the drink across the counter and I caught it with an unsure hand. Why I hesitated now, I... I don't know. The cold glass on my lips soon produced the familiar burn in my chest and the visions began to pass before my eyes. With a tinge of regret, I quickly threw my head back and downed the rest of my drink before I could change my mind.

"There's a smell of stale fear that is reeking from our skins
the drinking never stops 
because the drinks absolve our sins"
- The Bravery
"Believe"