...Story Time

Atsu was never one for drugs. Oh, yes, he had been pushed, like a young girl into the mud, but he resisted. It’s not like his parent’s words had any significant impact on him, he was never one for parents, either. Alcohol was simply what he wanted. It was and always had been. Was it simple rebellion? No. Atsu liked to think it was more than that. Atsu was very in touch with his inner chi. Like a middle aged housewife, he constantly attempted to make up for his past sins by attuning himself with nature. He liked to think that he and alcohol shared a bond. Atsu was sentimental, and very frequently recalled his meeting with alcohol with affection, as if it was some sort of lost love or strange guardian. One day, Atsu was lying in bed, curled up in fetal position, green eyes darting impatiently from his window to his clock, as if he was itching for the day to end. It was one of those mornings where the fog blanketed the ground like the surface of the earth itself, one of those days where you were afraid that if you left the house, the white would swallow you up, you would become part of it and it part of you, that it would polymerize you into nature itself, that it would swallow you and spit you out as a sick, fragile ghost. Atsu’s peace was disturbed by the loud creaking of his door, old, dead and rotten, his mother sauntered in. She was a woman of high esteem, a social climber, who, though very cheap and lacking in social skills, thought much of herself. Needless to say, she was less than charismatic.

‘Atsu,’ She mumbled, as if she was very busy and had no time on her hands ‘I believe you have a friend here to see you.’

And in walked a man dressed in rags, wearing what was quite obviously a toupee. He had a certain way about him that made you think he was much wealthier than he was. A certain way he carried himself that made you want to congratulate him, regardless of if he deserved it. He sat by Atsu on his bed. Atsu paid no mind. He was quite shaken, but he couldn’t let down his tough exterior. The man in rags gazed softly at Atsu for what seemed like hours before lightly placing a paper bag on the table by his bed. He paused, looking like he was about to speak, but stopped short before speaking.

He simply spoke,

‘This is for you. Do what’s right.’

The man in rags patted Atsu on the shoulder, attempting to show affection, but failing miserably. He mumbled something softly and stepped silently out of the house.

It was a good while before Atsu had made his choice. He pushed and pulled until he unraveled himself from the labyrinth that were his covers and outstretched his dominant arm (left, of course) and seized the bag like he should have been the day. Atsu opened the bag, slightly ripping the sides. Inside he found a large bottle wearing a label bearing a cartoon of a well dressed plump man ambling along the road, bearing a cane and a top hat. Atsu smiled at the picture and opened the bottle. His bottle.

 

That night, Atsu had a dream.