8:52pm. 

They never teach you “writing to escape” in school. I’m still not sure why that is. Perhaps because they want you to face your problems head-on, like a real man. Maybe they think that all problems can be sorted out simply and logically, like a maths equation.

But I was never any good at sums.

And so here I am, in the corner of this grotty little pub on the wrong side of nowhere, while my mathematically minded peers smile and joke over a table topped with glasses of amber liquid. Scribbling all my thoughts into a little black book. The plight of the English student. It’s never as simple as one-plus-one. Never. There are always hidden meanings; metaphors and messages. Nobody ever means quite what they say.

What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, thanks for asking. I’m alright, mate. Don’t worry. All just words, when it comes down to it. If only they knew what was going on inside my head. It’d certainly sour the taste of that cider they’re drinking. I can barely taste mine.

But hey! Maybe I’ll find the answer to all my problems at the bottom of this glass. It works for some. Everybody else in here seems to be doing alright. Maybe that’s why they’re all so happy.

It’s worth a shot. Make mine a double.

———-

9:14pm.

I’m not much of a drinker. It’s rarely more than a pint or two for me. I’ve always thought it more fun to watch my friends gradually drink themselves into a stupor. First they start to slur their words. Then comes the exaggerated affection – arms flung around the shoulders, and cheery grins all round. As if they care. Bottoms up. Chin up. Not a worry in the world.

At what point does your perception change? When does the world begin to morph into a hazy blur of colours and faces? When do you lose yourself to the glass in your hand, and leave all your troubles behind? I’m on my second glass of whiskey, and I still don’t know the answer. Hell, do I even like whiskey? I don’t know the answer to that, either. But someone told me it gets better with every glass.

Failing that, there’s always gin. Vodka. There’s dark rum, and white rum. Decisions, decisions! I’ve enough money to get me through the night – one way or the other – and nobody to share it with. But never mind! The night is young, and so am I. The world is my very own, private oyster. I can drink until I drop dead, and I don’t need to worry about what anybody else might think.

A couple of my friends have gone. Made their excuses, and headed out into the night. They probably just don’t want to be seen with me. They’re leaving now, before I turn my bloodshot eyes on them. But the others are here. Everyone here, bar one. She’s not coming.

My glass is empty? It was only half empty the last time I looked.

Time for another.

———-

10:22pm.

There’s an empty bottle sat on the other side of the table. A towering monument among the cigarette butts and scattered ashes that cover the stained, grimy surface. The contours of the glass catch the reflections of the shining bulbs at one side of the darkened bar, giving it a lurid, etheral glow that’s dulled by the smudged fingerprints around the neck. It’s impossible to make out all the words printed on the side, but the word “Corona” is clearly legible on the center of the label. A slice of lime sits awkwardly in the dregs of warm beer inside the bottle; its juices slowly seeping from its pale flesh.

Who drank it? It could have been any one of my so called friends – who’ve all fucked off, incidentally. Probably to another bar. Finished with their drinks, and finished with me. Deja vu? None of them want to spend time with me. Why the hell would they? They don’t think I need them here. They think I’d rather drown in my own misery – or my own drink. Well, clearly no-one told them that misery loves company. I need them here, to keep me in check. To stop me from going that one drink too far.

That’s what friends are for, right? Right?

Friends. They never really were my friends. People are only ever your friends until they get what they want from you, and then they go and stab you in the back. Happy to leave you lying in a pool of your whiskey. A friendship only ever lasts as long as your friend can keep from sticking that knife into your back. Everyone does it eventually. They don’t really care about anybody else; they only ever look out for number one.

But why should anyone care about anyone? If everyone cares about someone, then everyone’s going to get hurt, because that someone is always going to fuck them over eventually. The people you love – friends, lovers – will always twist the knife between your ribs and into your heart before you know where you are. At least she’s proven that. The more you care, the more hurt you get. The real reason you keep your enemies closer than your friends is because you know where you stand with them. You have to keep your friends at at least arm’s length, so they can’t quite reach, even with that fucking great big knife in their fist.

Ugh. Maybe I’m wrong about them. Maybe these aren’t my words – it’s Jack Daniels talking for me. But if I couldn’t trust her not to hurt me, why the fuck should I trust any of them?

I need anotherer drink. I thought I ws drinking to forgrt, but I still remembher.

———-

11:30pm.

Just spke to the barman. He appeared out of nowhere; just popped out of thin air and sudnly he ws there. Ha! I’m a poet, and I didn’t even kno wit. Jesus, I can baerly read my own writing! Damn you, Jack Daniels. You’ve got the better of me. Anyway, there he was – loooming over me like Death himself, with tombstone teeth and hollow eyes filling my gazeas I finished my spirit. He wantsme to go, beacuse I am the only person left in the bar, he’s dead tired, and he wants to go up to bed with his wife. Go away, I said. Go to hell. I’m not that bad yet. Let me have anothher drink.

At least he’s allowwed me that. He shuld just be thankfull he has someone up there waiting for him. People take love for grantd these days. They all seee love as a part time thing, and don’t take it seiouisly. It meansnoithing to them. Nothing! They’re happy to treayt hearts like ragdolls – chcuk them around and think they won’t get damaged. People re fundanmentlly selfish.

Well, it meant soemthing to me. And I thouhgt it meant somehting to her too. Thse three years were the bestest years of my life. She maed me the happiest man in the whole wide world. I would have given her the whole world if I could’ve. I thought she felt the samew ay, for a while. But whn she started working at that goddamn club, everythng changed. She changed, and my world changed with her.

Why coudlnt I see?! I couldnt maek the connection. Five months completely oblivious to wht shewas doing. How could I be so stupid? How cld I be so blind? Was she a good liar, or was I just too close to see the big picture? She began to drift away, and I clungon simply ’cause I needed her. And then she hit me in th face. Five months, with tht bloke who ran the bar. And now she’s run with him. Left me drifting with nothing to cling to.

I don’t even know his name. That’s probably a good thing. It cld have been worse, afetr all. Imagine if he’d been a clse friend? Imagne if I’d been backstabbd by the guys suppposed to me watching my back. Now that would hvae been really, really, really shit. But it makes no odds now. But I trsted her! More than anyone! And she let me down. Any of my “friends” cld too. Any day of the week. You never know.

I’m drinking because I need to know if the last three years have al been a lie. Alcohol always tells the truth. I’m writing because if I write the truth down, it won’t go away when I’m sober. Anmd I need to face it sometime. Not to forget, not to escape. To remmember.

Did I do somehting wrong? Mabye I didn’t appriecate her enough. You don’t know what you got till it’s gone. Counting Crows. Counting my blessings – or I would, if I had any to count.

I’ll coutn bottles instaed.

Ten greeeen bottles…no. Thre’s moretha n that.

———-

12:03am.

FCKUNING BTCH FOR DOIGN THIS TO ME FUKCSKAE ALL I WNTEAD WS FOR HER TO LVE ME

———-