Short Story: Why I don’t drink whiskey any more
To this day I still don’t know what woke me. We’d spent most of the evening listening to music, drinking whiskey, having drunken, drawn out sex and at some point I’d fallen into the coma-like sleep that only comes from excessive alcohol intake. But suddenly, it was 4 am and I was awake.
And he wasn’t beside me.
I turned my head, sleepily, and saw him sat on the floor. A street lamp outside shone through the window, lighting up the whiskey bottle with an eerie golden glow. Jesus, there wasn’t much left. Either we’d drunk more than I thought or he’d really been hitting it while I was sleeping.
“Are you ok?” Trying and failing to keep the sleep from my voice. I remember being curious, but not concerned. After all, we’d only recently met. We were both still hiding our demons.
“No.” Not looking at me.
A flash of irritation. Something I will always feel guilty for.
“Your knives aren’t sharp enough.”
He seemed to be gripping the top of his left arm with his right hand. I realised then what the bottle on the table was obscuring. The blade, angled into his flesh. The whiteness of his knuckles as he tried to break the skin.
His eyes were cast down, hair forming a curtain across his face. I couldn’t make out his expression. Then, with an inarticulate sound, he hurled the knife to the floor and, still not looking at me, took a long pull from the bottle.
Words: Hannah Morgan