[Trigger warning: Suicide, Alcohol]
Amazingly, the first sip can still make me shudder as it goes down, as though it's an unfamiliar substance. Even this is part of the ritual; a tiny moment of uncertainty before surrendering to it. Deep red poison sliding down my throat. It becomes an internal crimson stream, promising to smooth the mind's anxious furrows the way water acts on river stones. A pretty lie, but sometimes that's enough.
When the glass isn't there a part of me still reaches for it and, ever unsatisfied, continues to search restlessly for the thing that's missing. No matter how many distractions and substitutes I find part of me will still be looking for that simple release. I look for ways to ignore it and box my compulsions away, taping them down with personal rules and schedules. Sometimes I even follow them.
It's okay. Just so long as the stream doesn't swell and threaten to flood. I'm okay.