I Want To Date My English Teacher

Detention

Detention

My hand shakes, thinking about what I’ve just done. I can’t believe I just did that. A strange sense of freedom and liberation comes over me. I feel better; I feel lighter.

I take a step back, the empty bottle in my hand. I place it on the side, and bend down, reaching into the cupboard under the sink. I pull out a roll of black bin bags, and rip one off, opening it. I reach for the bottle on the side, and drop it into the bag.

I know I need to clean out the whole house.

Tessa had made a good start, with the fridge and all the cupboards. But she didn’t know about the hoard in my room. It had been skipped. She wouldn’t have thought to look under my bed, where all the bottles were.

I take a deep breath, and carry the bag into my bedroom. I kneel down on the floor, and lift up the duvet covering all the mess of bottles underneath the bed. I drop my head in shame.

One by one, I begin to pick up the bottles and cans, and place them into the bag. The horde begins to dissipate, but when it gets to the bottles and cans pushed to the back I have to crawl under the bed and reach them.

In such close proximity the scent of the alcohol seduces its way into my nose and it makes my chest go tight and my heart rate accelerates. I try to breathe through my mouth but it doesn’t stop the smell entering my nose.

I want it. I need a drink, now. What am I doing? Why am I getting rid of it all? I need a drink, I need it, and I need to drink.

I escape the underneath of the bed quickly. I take a few deep breaths of the non tainted air. What am I doing with my life?

Running my hands through my hair, I realise that it’s finally time I admit it to myself. I’m not okay. How I’ve been acting is not acceptable or appropriate. I need to realise that I need help.

I have a problem with alcohol.

I have a serious drinking problem.

Hoarding alcohol under my bed is not okay. Pushing away my friends and family is not okay. Acting reckless and foolishly is not okay. Being constantly intoxicated is not okay.

“I have a drinking problem” I say out loud to myself, and as the words leave my mouth they almost become like little mosquitoes in the air and they turn around to attack me. I feel like they’re strangling me, forcing their way into my mouth and down my throat, and stinging the bare flesh around my throat.

I cough and choke, but find my resolve. I reach under the bed and pull out a can, which I quickly deposit into the black bag. As soon as I do that, the imaginary mosquitoes of my words begin to die, dropping to the ground.

Hurriedly, I place more cans and bottles into the bag, delighted by the relief I feel. Within minutes all the bottles from under the bag are gone. I sigh, leaning back against my bed, spreading my legs out on the floor. In my hand, is the black bag.