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Ten years. That’s how long it has been since you last celebrated your birthday, the last time you were hugged by your father Phil, the last time you had been with your mother. Ten years spent longing for your mother, but she’s gone. Six feet underground. It’s not that you didn’t have anyone to celebrate with, no. Your father Phil had just forgotten about you, about his wife, your mother, Kristin. Or he didn’t forget, but he just pretended you both never existed. Take a shot.
Seven years. That’s how long it has been since you last had a real conversation with your father and twin brothers, Wilbur and Techno. Wilbur had left to go to college in the states. He had gotten an apartment nearby and quickly after had started a band, Lovejoy. Techno, on the other hand, had gotten a once in a lifetime opportunity to travel around the world and study the different cultures, biomes, behaviors, etc. You were left all alone with that thing. Take a shot.
With your two brothers out of England, it was just you and your father. Dinners were quiet, often leading to an awkward one-sided conversation. The last time Phil had really spoken to you was two years ago, and even then it was about your eating habits.
“I don’t get why you only eat like two bites of food,” he had said. “At least try to eat half of it some days.” Phil didn’t get it, no one ever did.
“WRONG!” a voice at the back of your head said, “WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, WRONG!” it was relentless, uncontrollable even. What did it mean, wrong? “You’re wrong.” it called again, “Mother cared, she always cared. Even when you had done something wrong, she cared. Your mother had told you that it wasn’t your fault, even when it was very much your fault. But she’s gone now, isn’t she Tom?”
Only now did you realize that the voice was you. The voice in your head was your true thoughts, feelings, and memories of this cruel world.
“Take a shot,” the voice in your head finally says. “Take a shot.” the voice sounds again, this time you know what it means.
Downstairs, in the living room lies your father’s alcohol cabinet. You had been over this with your father. “The missing beer and wine must have been from when he was blackout drunk”, but you both know that’s a lie.
You have a drinking problem, you always have. The worst part? You’re 17, barely six months away from turning 18, and you have a drinking problem. Sure your father did as well, but he’s almost 50 now. He's not underage like you, and he's had 'real reasons' to drink unlike you and you're pesky teenage problems.
“Take a shot, clear your conscience.” the voice rang again, this time instead of being faint and barely heard, it was now the only thing you could hear. That was other than the background noise of ringing in your ears, but that was always there and you had gotten used to it by now.
Suddenly you realize that you're in front of your father’s alcohol cabinet again.
“Do. It. Take a shot, clear your conscience.” This time instead of you having the control over your body and the voice just being a voice, you are suddenly a spectator in your own life as the voice takes over.
First it was small movements, almost checking if it still knew how to move. Then it opened the cabinet door. Shit, is the only thing you can think of before you are pouring yourself a shot of a liqueur. You add some fruits to it and are on your merry way to playing a nice game of Who Can Take the Most Shots Before They Blackout?, but this time it’s only with yourself.
Almost on cue, your father bursts the door open. He was heading his way towards the kitchen when he noticed you.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Phil sounds angry, his tone hoarse from being at the hospital all day.
“I-…did you have a good day at work, sir?” you say with a snarky smirk.
“No, and you drinking again is not helping it.” He sounds as if he almost wants to help, but he also is furious and could go for a good shot of any and all alcohol as well right now.
“Tom, we talked about this… You know what, no. No, I’m done just talking to you about this. Go to your room and think about your actions, right now!” is all your father says before slamming the door to his bedroom shut.
You run upstairs, slamming your door shut. There's pills atop your desk. There's rope in your closet. There's a building in town nearby that you know is tall enough to make you succumb to the sweet release of death.
You instead opt to sit down at your desk. There's also a notebook and pencil that you will use, unlike the things mentioned previously. You flip to a new page and let all your thoughts pour out in the shape of poetry.
This he can't take away at least, your inner rings out, only this time it's not the bloodthirsty and cold hearted one. Instead, this is a sad voice, grown to sound more and more like a general who has suffered loss after loss over these past few years.
You decide to lay your head down for the night and shove the option of suicide to the back of your mind, waiting until it resurfaces again to deal with it.