Whiskey Is Risky

17 years and 364 days had passed.
It was bitterly cold and I was cold and bitter.
I needed to get out.

Two phone calls and a car ride later we were sitting in his room,
admiring a bottle of black label.

We went up to the roof to look at the stars.
There were none.

One sip. two sip. three sip. four.
Shot. 
Shot. 
Shot.
Shot. 
Floor.

The layers came off,
the rest was a blur.

A mixture of ecstasy and shame.
A moment of clarity.
An almost empty bottle lying on the floor.

Before I knew it I was home.
Swaying and willing myself to hold the whiskey in.

An eternity in a spinning elevator can make you sick to your stomach.
I wiped my mouth and stood under the shower with all my clothes on.

At twelve my phone began to ring.
Over and over again.
I couldn’t even open my eyes.
Everything went black.

I woke up the next morning still drunk from the night before,
to flashes of clinking glasses and clumsy bodies writhing on the floor

My initiation into adulthood was complete.
I was fucked. 

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