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Rated: E · Short Story · Dark · #1835460
Just a short story I wrote a few years back...
Hitting Rock Bottom

         My gaunt face was accented with a long, crooked nose. My lips were twisted into a grotesque semblance of a grin, and my short, ragged breaths smelled strongly of ale.

         My mind was a sewer. Vile thoughts were like rats bearing the Black Death, infecting, intoxicating, and destroying my subconscious, slowly polluting it to the point of no return. Decency and honor are lost treasures in a vast sea of unscrupulousness and malicious intent, and corruption gleamed in my bloodshot eyes.

         I lurched forwards, stumbling and groping in an attempt to stay up. Head throbbing and chest pounding, I weaved back and forth, my face contorted with agony. All the hint of the animal-like cunning had disappeared from me after the third cup, and, onto the table I threw a few coins, which the sour bartender quickly snatched up.

         Staggering drunkenly, I left the tavern, ignoring the hate filled eyes of a gang seated by the door. Cowled in a dark sweater, a mysterious man, waiting impatiently outside, glared at me belligerently. Although the lethargic effects of alcohol still held my mind in its cold embrace, I sighed inwardly. Everyone hated me these days.

         Wanly, I smiled optimistically. The irascible stranger's eyes hardened, conveying a multitude of barely veiled threats. Then, giving me a chilling smile, he pulled out a knife, testing its razor sharp edge along his finger. Blanching slightly, I turned away. There was no use reasoning with these people, I thought sullenly.

         As I shrugged off the encounter, I turned to my inner turmoil. Sadly, I thought about little Lisa. I remember the time she had declared rather imperiously that she wanted to be famous. At first, we were hesitant, but upon hearing her sing, our doubts vanished. Her voice was as delicate as the first dewdrops on the petals of a cherry blossom, yet it was able to reach the highest notes while still keeping the musical rhythm that made her so unique. We had such high hopes for her.

         Tears streamed down my face like a river of grief and sorrow as I recalled that ghastly night. I was taking my impish little daughter and my ravishing Rose for a little drive, when a drunken man lurched onto the streets. Instinctively, I swerved. The telephone pole didn't do too much damage; it was the car that tackled us going sixty miles an hour that really nailed the lid on our coffins. I was the only survivor.

         "Why me," I whispered morosely.

         My reverie came to a sudden end at the hand of loud honking from a car horn. I realized that my unconsciousness had led me to the middle of the road. I looked up, and saw the terrified eyes of a man and woman.
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