Golden Brown

The voices were faint. But they were urgent. Insistent.

For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why anyone would be calling me so late at night.

I was safe in my bed. Safe in my home.

Safe with my golden brown liquid.

No one to yap at me. Or nag. Or even comfort.

I was alright. Fine as I was.

But then the voices grew louder.

More urgent. Even more insistent.

And when I dared to slightly open my eyes, I knew I was doomed. Forever.

The golden brown liquid had not always been my everything. In fact, I rarely ever indulged in it. Not once till the good old age of 21. That was the age where even the late bloomers, and even the strict conservatives had to try something.

Drugs. Weed. Sex. Alcohol.

I tried them all. But never loved any too much to become my god.

I met Amie, though. And for ten beautiful years, she was my god.

Then, she left me.

And no, she isn’t the cause of my sorry predicament.

I’m not that petty and immature as to attribute my failures to another.

I was the architect of my own misfortune.

I had failed my marriage. Failed Amie. Failed myself.

My childhood demons had finally caught up with me.

She saw I was heading down the hole of despair.

Didn’t let me drag her down with me.

Smart girl.

But then, Amie had always been a smart girl.

She saw destruction and decided that her love for me wasn’t worth the destruction that awaited her.

And so she left.

And a smart guy would not have watched the love of his life leave.

He would have shooed the demons away for the umpteenth time, picked up the pieces, tried again, and maybe, gone after the love of his life.

But I was never a smart guy.

So, I picked my evil of choice. Alcohol.

And like a knowing lover, it welcomed me.

With open arms.

Never judging. Never expecting. Just an en masse of comfort.

And boy, did I relish in the comfort of the golden liquid.

The voices in the background now became more than voices. They tapped me.

And so, I remembered. That my story wasn’t over.

I didn’t remain in the pit.

Some years later, I did pick up the pieces.

Maybe it’s because I saw Amie on the cover of the Times Magazine.

My gnarly, grubby hands had hastily and shakily flipped through the pages.

Reading words of adulation from thousands of people.

She had become a voice to be reckoned with in the Finance world.

Like she’d always wanted.

It was the wake up call I needed.

Because I emptied my precious golden brown liquid into the sink.

And sold the others for a discount price to the neighbour next door.

I was going to get it right. And, perhaps, Amie would want me again.

Miles away from her league as I now was.

But how fast can you really run when your demons are one to never give up?

To never stop chasing.

And your spirit, ever in the unrelenting chokehold of your body.

Maybe that would explain the voices.

That would explain why on the evening of the very day I was offered a job,

After years of hunting....

I sat down on my prim teacher desk.

In my prim teacher clothes.

And in the cabinet just beside me, lay an untouched bottle of the beautiful golden brown liquid.

There it lay, enchanting under the sliver of light from the crescent moon filtering into the class.

One sip wouldn’t hurt.

But sips hurt the most, don’t they?

Because of how one sip easily becomes far too many sips.

“Mr. Jeremy Talbot! Get up at once!”

I finally deigned to look up.

Ready to face my ruin in the eye.

Ignoring the headache pounding an insistent staccato from my brain right through my jaw, I willed my eyes to focus.

The students stared with bewildered eyes.

The Principal huffed and puffed, her hands stretched in such dramatist stance, I honestly expected the building to come down any minute.

Then, just at the corner, with a look akin to pity in her eyes, was Amie. And then I remembered the reason why I’d come into the class in the first place.

The principal had hinted on a financial expert paying the students a courtesy visit the next day, and had emphasized how important it was that the students and their teacher made a good impression.

It just had to be her, didn’t it?

Tears of frustration, anguish and unadulterated anger welled in my insides.

But my life was always doomed. Long before it began.

So, I did the least thing anyone expected, and with slow, deliberate movements, took another swig of my golden brown liquid.

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What I See?

A bespectacled man, face down on a desk, as he loosely clutches a bottle.

What I Feel?

Exasperation. Despair. Hopelessness.

Jhymi🖤

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