Tragedy On Silverdale Road

Drinks

I hate alcohol.

I hate the way it smells, I hate the way is swishes in my glass, I hate how it burns my throat, I hate it. But I can't hate how it makes me forget the pain, the memories.

"Another one? Haven't you had enough for tonight, Violet?"

I simply shake my head. The bartender, Antwon, sighs but pours me another shot.

Six years alone in this shitty town in Ohio, four years alone in this bar, three years since I spoke to anyone insignificant, other than Antwon and my landlord, and one year off coke.

The need for a cigarette overpowers my need for a drink. I find myself with a heavy leather jacket on my shoulders and a lit cig between two fingers. I get head nods from fellow stoners as they walk by, but they never get one in return.

I've become a ghost in this town: a sad story mothers gossip about. The girl who was abandoned by her true love, never to recover and left to dig herself up from a dark life of meaningless sex and drugs.

Not to mention the alcohol.

"Babydoll."

I've never spoken a word to Evan Peters (not to be mistaken for the attractive actor) but he insists on calling me the stupid pet name. We've slept together on multiple occasions, usually when I send a text for him to come over.

"Hello gorgeous." He's older than me, about six or seven years, and always smells like an ash tray. His hair is kept short and manageable, probably so it doesn't get in way when he's snorting whatever cheap shit he's been getting lately.

I flick my cigarette bud away, raise an eyebrow, and walk away. The crunch of the gravel behind me keeps me up dated on where Evan is.

"Your place tonight?"

All he gets is a middle finger as I continue walking without a word.

I can no longer hear the gravel.

➖✖➖

"You have a sad life."

"I know." Sylvia is forty six years old, has a teenaged son, and happens to own the loft I sleep in. I pay about five hundred every month to her but she's the closest thing I've got to a friend.

A cigarette hangs between her fingers and she sips on whatever concoction she's made today. "You should date, find yourself a new man."

I take the cancer stick from her fingers and take a nice, long drag. I blow the smoke right onto her face, a smirk playing my lips. "No."

Her face twists in annoyance as she whines. "Please? There's a new gang moving into town and I bet they have lots of men who are just as fucked up as you!" She snatches the cigarette back. "Plus you're young! Twenty five with no boyfriend, or kids-- not even a job! At least check out the tavern for a hot guy."

"I don't want any of that, especially a job." Water dribbles from the corner of my mouth down my cleavage, but the back of my hand fixes that right away. "I've made myself the way I am, nothing can fix me."

Sylvia glances in my direction as she takes a small drag, her eyebrow lifted in mockery.

"Whatever you say, dollface."

In spite of her I snatch her drink and chug down half. Instantly I regret my decision, the burning being out of this world.

God, I hate alcohol.

Started// december.3.2016