The man felt as though he had been born again.
He was now 1 full year sober. He hadn’t stepped inside a bar or taven for the year’s entirety. Not once.
He thought back to his old self a mere 12 months before. He thought of how he would drown himself in whisky each and every night. He thought of how often he would find himself vomiting onto the cobbled streets of the back alleys of town. And he thought of the rows he would have with his wife and the way he had treated her.
Oh — how he would treat her. His darling. His sweet angel.
He looked into the sunny skies and thanked god that she had stuck by him. What a blessing she was. What a blessing indeed.
As he strolled home from work late one dark night, a strange, old lady appeared from the bushes and stood before him. She wore black from head to toe and the rim of her hat covered her eyes.
She looked him up and down with a smirk, “Hello young man”, she croaked.
“Pleasure to meet you”, replied the young man pleasantly. “What can I do for you lady?”.
With a vicious, evil grin upon her face, the old lady began chanting a curse under her breath. She stretched her hands toward the ground, as though to summon energy from deep below the earth’s surface. She then jolted both her arms towards the young man as if she were throwing some invisible entity toward him
“…are you OK old lady?”, the man asked with a tone of genuine concern.
The old lady let out a shrill laugh, “What’s that in your pocket young man?”, she giggled.
The young man felt inside his pocket. He looked down to his hand only to find it holding a little metal bottle of whisky.
“Wh..what’s this..?” He mumbled, confused.
The old lady spoke wide a wide smirk across her face:
“I have placed an eternal curse upon you. From this day forward you shall carry this bottle upon your person. Its contents shall never deplete, no matter how much you may drink. Try to dispose of it, and you shall find it swiftly returns to your pocket. Break the bottle in two, and it shall repair itself and return to your pocket. Remove your clothes and you shall find it before your feet. This curse will remain upon you until you depart this earth”
Upon finishing her sentence, she lifted her head to reveal her gaze — the most evil sight the man had ever seen.
With a click of her fingers, the old lady vanished completely.
—————————————————————————————————————————–
After several attempts to dispose of the bottle (casting it into a river, placing it in the pocket of a passing old man, smashing it with a rock and melting it in a furnace), the man accepted that the curse was indeed unbreakable, as the old lady had said.
While unnerved by the old lady’s strange curse, the man remained unphased. He was a changed man. It mattered not whether he forced to carry a bottle or not.
Several weeks passed, and the man had taken not a single sip of whisky from the little metal bottle.
One late night, as his wife lay beautifully in slumber beside him, a curiosity arose in his mind — that perhaps he could drink normally once again.
Perhaps after a year’s passing his mind and body were healed from addiction. A “test” was in order, he thought. To see if he was as addicted as he once was.
And there the whisky bottle was, at the foot of his bed.
Always available. Always ready to be drunk.
—————————————————————————————————————————–
Sip the whisky he did. Yet it affected him none. The man shrugged. The “test” was a success.
The weeks passed.
He grew used to the little metal whisky bottle that spent so much time with him. A silent, loyal friend by his side.
He watched his friends drink each weekend and began to feel as though he could do the same.
After all, to enjoy a fine beverage after a hard day’s work was a normal thing to do. Something to take the edge off his daily grind was a simple pleasure that any man ought to enjoy. And to his mind, to be stressed would be more unhealthy than a simple glass of whisky.
As he considered his choice, there the little bottle of whisky lay in his pocket.
Always available. Always ready to be drunk.
—————————————————————————————————————————–
The man once again began to drink. Usually, on a special occasion or with his friends after work. At times, he would drink just for a lack of anything else to do. And when the periods of boredom came into his life, there the little whisky bottle lay in his pocket.
Always available. Always ready to be drunk.
A voice began to whisper inside the depths of his mind.
“Stop..”
His wife began to notice a change in his behaviour
“Stop now…”
He began drinking upon waking in the morning.
“Stop…”
One night, after a difficult day at work, he drank the entire bottle twice over. After vomiting into his bathroom sink, he decided to listen to this mysterious voice coming from inside himself.
OK. That’s enough now, he thought. It was time to return to sobriety.
His “test” had turned out to be a failure. He would return to how he had been. And not drink another drop of whisky for the rest of his life.
As he came to this decision inside his mind, he smiled to himself; knowing this was the right thing to do. Confident that he would change immediately.
As he sat on his bed, his wife fast asleep, he came to a thought: that he should enjoy one last drink before he stops for good.
One last drink. And then no more for the rest of his life.
One last drink. To celebrate his new life.
One last drink. To long-lasting freedom from addiction.
“stop…”
As he considered this thought, there the little whisky bottle lay on his bedside table.
Always available. Always ready to be drunk.
And drink he did.
—————————————————————————————————————————–
He lay once again on the cobbled backstreets of town beside a pool of his own vomit. Where was his darling wife? Then he remembered — she had left weeks before and never returned.
As he thought of the bruise he had left upon her face, the guilt would torture him from the inside. Another swig of the bottle the only thing able to quell the feeling.
In that moment, as he abandoned hope for the future, came a miserable realisation. That the circumstance forced upon him had made the outcome of his life inevitable from the very first moment of the old lady’s curse.
He staggered in the direction of his home.
And the little bottle of whisky lay inside his pocket.
Always available. Always ready to be drunk.
