ONE MORE TASTE
This story contains the f-bomb. Sorry! So in character, it happened.
They said Ben could never make it to the top.
Turns out they were fucking right.
Two months ago he had been the best photographer in the whole state.
Now what was he?
The place was a mess.
Apartment carpet encrusted with dirt, dishes piled up ever since Theresa left on Sunday, shards of glass still on the floor from the shattered TV when Ben threw the whiskey bottle.
Why’d you go and do that? Ben would ask himself whenever he was sober enough to remember that part.
He took another swig. Second bottle this week. Second bottle too many but he stopped caring half an hour ago when his head started swimming and his thoughts ceased to be more than melancholy.
He had every right to be upset. It was work that was in the wrong, not him. It wasn’t his mistake. It was theirs.
It was Charles’ fault, he thought. If he hadn’t fired me, I wouldn’t have started drinking. Theresa wouldn’t have left and I never would have said those things I didn’t mean.
It was always the way of life. People couldn’t handle one another, couldn’t put up with basic faults. She always knew the alcoholism was a problem and would come out like the flick of a penknife. She should have known.
It’s her own damn fault for staying so long. Or giving up so easy.
Bills were piling up into little white houses for the cockroaches to live in on his coffee table.
He would evict them tomorrow. After just one more restless night and maybe one more drink to take the edge off in the morning.
And then he, Ben, the former man of the house would be evicted within the month.
It’s the landlord’s fault for being such a jerk.
Blame lifted in the air like wisps of smoke off the incense he burned to try and hide the scent of the building trash. The orange embers at the end of the stick were the only light in the room anymore.
I smell like a chimney.
He didn’t even know if he was speaking out loud or just in his head, but the voice was real and true enough to hit his pride where it hurt.
You know you’re just as much at fault as they are.
Bitter tears bit at the corners of his eyes.
You’re just like the apartment. A mess. But you always need that “one more taste,” don’t you?
He took a mouthful of whiskey again and had an epiphany as he suddenly knew the flavor.
He knew it well.
It was the taste of desperation.
For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Kurt at http://muzzlediaries.blogspot.com/ gave me this prompt: And there’s a taste in my mouth as desperation takes hold. –Ian Curtis, “Love Will Tear Us Apart”
I gave kgwaite at http://writinginthemarginsburstingattheseams.blogspot.com/ this prompt: Never say you didn’t have a choice. You always have a choice.
Kurt and KG are both people I love so I am happy we exchanged prompts. I’m finally back on the wagon after submitting to a few contest.
Lately I’ve been dealing with a lot of life stress. Some good, some bad, but just feeling a little desperate myself so this felt like a lightbulb going on in my head. I’m planning to move in with my boyfriend in a few months, and trying to figure out how financially I can do that, and also if any other jobs are out there.
And then like an answer, some freelance jobs cropped up: I have been writing copy for some websites! As soon as they are up and running I’ll provide links and screenshots. So pumped! It’s a new realm for me but supposedly I do it well? I don’t know, you be the judge.
Glad to be back with all of you, dear readers. Hope your March is going well but looking forward to April as much as you are!