I’ve been playing around with the idea of a post apocalyptic story recently. There are a lot of scenes in my idea journal that center around this idea. Nothing dealing with the actual apocalypse, more the act of being one of only a few survivors. Nothing has really solidified from this idea, yet. But here is one scene, written like a diary entry from one of the survivors.
Among everything else that is going on, I think I’ve discovered that I’m an alcoholic. At least, that’s what we would’ve called it before. I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. I don’t get through a meal without a drink. No one even notices, never mind feels bothered by it. My drink of choice during the day is whiskey. It’s easy to find. We grab bottles of it whenever we are scavenging in stores, which we do regularly. I ask for different bottles, hoping that means they won’t notice how many they’re grabbing and how often. “Get me an Irish whiskey, a Scotch whiskey, and an American whiskey. You never know what we might need for a cocktail,” I’ll say like it’s a joke. Then they’ll bring back three bottles. I think that’s how I noticed I have a problem. Because I don’t care anymore. They all taste the same. They all numb the pain.
Then there’s the wine. I drink that at dinner. Every single night. I always offer drinks to everyone else at the table. The truth is that I will open a second bottle if too many people are sharing it. By too many people, I mean three. If three people are drinking, and that includes me, I always need to open a second bottle. Because a third of a bottle does not keep the fear at bay. A third of the bottle does nothing.
Maybe no one cares because we have bigger things to worry about. Maybe no one cares because they’re also drinking entirely too much. Maybe no one cares because I still do my share of the work at camp and keep things moving. Maybe no one cares because no one notices. I guess I won’t know unless I talk to them about it and that is not going to happen.As always, this is my original work. Be cool, don’t steal.