What if that drink in your hand is your very last?
Now, you're chugging down the last bottle of vodka you have like it's fucking water. You're destroying youreslf! Stop it! You can't even stand up! You're leaning against the counter, and you speech is so slurred you might swallow your tongue. Your going to die if you keep drinking. DO you care at all? Because if you do, you don't act like it!
You've gone on drinking binges before, but I think this time is by far the worst. Several gallons of alcoholic bevarages have disappeared down your throat within a single hour. You're streaming curses nad insults at me, even as you contrinue to glug down the toxic substances. Hopefully, you'll pass out soon. I'm finding myself hating you, for what you do, and dare I say it, who you are.
You're runnig low on alcohol now, and you know it. There's only a single bottle of wine left, some of that cheap, crappy stuff, you'd have to drink a few bottles of it by yourself just to get buzzed. You try to stumble past me, but I shove you back. 'Let me out!' You yell. We both know that you're going to go and get more booze.
But I know that you're in no condition to go anywhere, eve nthe bathroom to puke, let alone outside. Yet you're hellbent on getting your booze. I hate feeling helpless. But I do the only thing I know will keep you in the house, at least halfway safe, at least for a while.
I tell you that if you stay here, I'll go out and get more for you. You give me a long look, your eyes not quite focusing, trying to decide whether or not to trust me. Finally, you nod, slumping to the ground, too drunk to support your own weight.
I leave, taking my keys and wallet. All the way to the liquor store, I worry. I worry about you.
In the liquor store, I get funny looks for buying that much alcohol. The clerk in particular sent some funny looks my way. Several bottoles of overproof run, some vodka, and more Jack Daniels, all apparently for a scrawny kid like me. "Frat party?" The clerk asks when I finally get to the front of the store and flash my ID. Let's go with that. I nod. He sends me a sympathetic look as he rings me up. IF he knew the truth, he wouldn't be so kind. I hurry back home, hoping you're ok and haven't done anything while I've been goine.
When i hope the door, one of seeral paper bags in my hand, I find you slumped on the floor, apparently fast asleep. I place the alcohol back in my car. Good, you were passed out.
The next morning, you haven't even moved an inch. The day after, the same. You were dead. Finally. When the autopsy report came back, it showed your blood was nearly entirely alcohol that night. But I guess it's better that you went that way. IF you hadn't, you would't have made it much longer, because your liver was nearly entirely dead.