Page 68 - The Houseguest

rang up the $18 shoes without ever removing his ear buds from his cell phone. Brian walked out wearing his new duds, his dirty khakis in his backpack, carrying the shoe box in his hand, and headed for the liquor store.
One of the things he found that had changed on the “outside” was what the liquor store charged to cash a simple check. The amount they kept for the risk of cashing it made stealing the suit seem hardly worth the effort. Yet, he could almost feel the lukewarm whiskey sliding down his throat. His craving for alcohol was like an itch that needed to be scratched until it went away. Grabbing a bottle of Jim Beam by the neck, he felt a twinge of that old connection rising up inside. The shape of the bottle, the coolness of its glass against his grip, the transparency of the fluctuating brown tones of the whiskey inside, all qualities that made him relish the experience. Anticipation and excitement flooded his mind leaving no room for any other emotions. He was finally going to be able to drown his brain again in the only thing able to erase his past, validate his present and make his future able to face.
He couldn’t wait to take his first sip, so he dodged behind the corner of the brick building, opened the bottle and gulped. Gagging and choking, he gulped again. He gulped until his body had a chance to catch up with his brain in processing the amount of alcohol it was receiving. He compared the sensation to good sex, but he was going by events of the past as prison had denied him that indulgence as well. As he become more intoxicated, the unexpected memories came. His father, the beatings, the bruises, the steel bars, the dirty cot, the shared toilet. What was this? Alcohol used to hide these atrocities for him, not enhance
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life