Title: Seven is the luckiest number.
Author: Ethan (Hoods@witty.com)
Rating: N/R--this post has not yet been rated.
Summary: It's been a while since I could look at myself straight..
In the barren wasteland of lacquered wood and painted walls, a table sat with his former friendslined in an executioner's row--he was simply having trouble deciding who should have the first shot. Hands rose to wash over his face as he stared at the unbroken seals; each label was read with the same burn of memory and regret washing over his tongue and sliding down his throat.
Fingers separated the rum from the rest of the bottles first--his reasoning was that it was too dark or too light, it always changed its color and its flavor depending on the hand that poured it. It was the type of drink that was almost always mixed with something else, and no matter how hard he tried to keep it straight, he couldn't stomach the taste once he'd read the label.
He never liked the taste of vodka simply because it was deceptive. Even now as fingers guided it to land next to the other cast aside, it glittered pure as water but twice as deadly. He knew that once it had been opened, it would deceive him until the very last drop reached the back of his throat.
The brandy was stared at--dark glass reflected the faint lines of scars on his forearms before he moved it aside as well. He knew he'd taste nothing but basement soot and the familiarity of copper as an aftertaste if he poured it into a glass. It was like pouring sand down a desert wanderer's throat and expecting them to choke it down.
With the crook of a wrist brushing against his nose as he sniffed faintly (to jar the memory of faces that replaced the labels of the bottles) he stared down at the right angles of the heavy glass that cased the amber liquor. Unlike the others, this had been something he found on his own; a drink he held in a fist and refused to dilute with lies. It simply tasted how his bruises felt--slow to fade but always calming.
Fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle before it was uncapped and brought to his mouth, allowing the liquid to loosen his tongue before it was swallowed down like the water of life. It was always picking up right where he left off with Jack Daniels--it kept him honest, a realism that he kept in overbearing silences that filled the space between walls.
It was that realism that led Charlie to believe he had enough spirits in that bottle to fill up what he lacked in his own.