Bottom of the Bottle.. (Short Story)

Nothing I write seems worth a damn tonight. The glass is empty and the bottle is long run dry. The imprint of my lipstick on the glass a soft reminder of how low I’ve sunk. Leftover ash scattered about the table, I mindlessly drag my fingertips through it. Maybe if I stare at the bottle long enough it’ll fill back up with liquid I can drown in.

The spotlight above me the only light in an otherwise room inhabited by shadows. I can’t help but think each of us are looking for the same thing at the bottom of the bottle. Like the elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Answers. Maybe we know the question, maybe we don’t, the result is still the same. The bottom doesn’t hold some secret message, it’s just glass, glass that can easily be smashed, cutting up skin like ribbons.

Maybe the bottle will suddenly gain the ability to speak, like a wise man ready to distill all the wisdom of the universe. The why and how of the human condition. All I hear is the sound of my breath hitting the open hole, creating an echo that fits perfectly with the eerie stillness.

My mind is just a mess of scattered papers, fractions of ideas with no clear beginning. I can’t make a damn thing fit. I can’t make a sentence flow. No drink can calm my nerves, no inhale of smoke can stop the shaking. I rub the corners of my eyes in a pathetic attempt at reviving them from their fixed gaze of defeat.

“Stupid bottle”, I think to myself. “What good are you now?”

“You’re nothing, and I’m nothing, at least my friend, we have that in common.” My thoughts are the ramblings of a lost and empty Saturday night.

Cold chill in the air, feeling more thirsty than when I started. I didn’t “lose track” of the time, it was just unceremoniously distributed in the pool of chard ash, table rings and lipstick stains in front of me.

If my heart could drink of its own free will, it’d be lying stoned in the gutter, about a 100miles from bumfuck nowhere.

“Stupid bastard”, I’d think at such a sight.

“You’re as worthless as the empty bottle you huddle against for warmth.”

Abstract thoughts bounce off the walls of my mind, a mixture of self pity and disgust. Manifested in the forms of washed up vagabonds.

Us artists sure are a self hating bunch, we wear it on our sleeve like a badge of honor. Stereotypes reading like songs on a track list, each one has lyrics you can relate. We agonize over our work, doing our little hen pecking, that line isn’t straight, those words sound so dull, we give self sabotage a voice.

I’ve lost all feeling in my lower back at this point, the sagging of my posture creating a hunchback that would make Quasimodo proud.

The night is dragging on the slowest it’s ever been, and I’ve resigned myself to this spot for a bed tonight.

“It’s just you and me bottle, you ain’t getting any better than this tonight, so pay the tab and — ugh”. I stumble over my words and feel a fire rising in my throat. I force down a hard swallow and feel my stomach take a nosedive into my small intestine. A shudder runs down my spine, followed by a cold sweat.

“This is all your fault!” I shout with acid in my words at the catatonic empty bottle.

Silence encompasses the room once again and I’m suddenly more painfully aware than ever at how alone I really am. The realization that I’m trying to converse with a lifeless piece of glass, proves I’m drunk off my own misery. And to think that it has anything to do with this bottle is far removed from simply pathetic.

“God I’m a mess..” I utter to the remaining pieces of my sanity.

I can’t help but smirk slightly at how excruciatingly obvious that statement is.

It’s half passed fuckit o’clock in the morning and my eyes wince with grainy dryness. I gather up what little dignity I have left and push myself off the barstool. My feet land on the cold wooden floors and the sensation reminds me of how I hate everything.

To lazy to attempt stretching my back out of its slumped position, I walk hunchback a few steps forward and hear my joints popping and bones cracking. A soft “heh” leaves my dry lips and I mutter,

“Geez, I hope I don’t look as bad as I sound.” I shuffle another few feet into the darkness, squinting across the living room to the hall that leads to my bedroom. I turn my head back towards the light and see my companion of the evening. Glinting off the hanging light and reflecting my silhouette in the dark emerald hue.

Pissing off the concept of dignity, I grab my empty friend and flick the light switch. The large bay windows letting in the glow of the night sky to guide me through to my empty bedroom. I strip to my underwear and crawl over the crisp chilly sheets. I let out an exasperated sigh and lay on my side. Pulling the bottle into my chest I hug it with both arms. My warm skin heats up the glass quickly and I curl up my knees into my stomach.

In the back of my mind I know I’m hugging a bottle as if it were a precious plushie, and how utterly sad the whole thing is. But, I could bask in my shame come daybreak. Right now, it’s all I had, and had stuck with me all night..🍂🍁


I just wrote what I felt last night and this is the result. I’m not sure if I should continue it or just leave it as is. But I genuinely like it and feel proud of it.


Yes I know I look awful in this pic, but that’s the point. Tiny bits of old makeup, bags under my eyes, bruise on my neck, lost look on my face. It all fits with the mood of the story.



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9 thoughts on “Bottom of the Bottle.. (Short Story)

  1. As someone who has broken down and found companionship in a number of debauched, perhaps sinful, pastimes, I empathize. Sometimes sharing the experience is all it takes. Keep it up, I’m your newest fan and I just haaate to be disappointed. (It’s tough to convey sarcasm without italics, but I’m trying anyway)

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      1. That’s the point of all of our blogs, isn’t it? To fulfill some kind of selfish desire to be understood, and have people try to flatter us for writing. That is, of course, unless I’m alone in trying to coerce compliments out of people, which is maybe just as likely.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. That’s a still honest expression, and maybe a more commendable approach. I say throw sanity to the wind and what’s left is the most honest art that we can come up with. Sanity is all relative, anyway. None of our neighbors would find us sane if they’d just take the time to watch intently.

        I like the anime tie-in approach that your blog takes. It keeps even the most unique experiences relatable to the weird kids from everyone’s high school, my favorite people.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. I’d rather be weird than normal any day. Normal is so blasé. Be who you wanna be, fuck the negative things people wanna label you or judge you. Perfection doesn’t exist, but if it did, damn it’d be so boring.

        We’re all flawed, all lost in what the hell we’re doing, but your life belongs to you, and no one else. Might as well have some dope stories to tell at the end of it eheh.

        Liked by 1 person

      4. I agree completely. I’m the music festival hippie nerd, if you’re looking for labels. I think that we should try and experience as much as possible in these short lives. You seem like my kind of person. Stay weird and it inspires others.

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