Triad Magazine

A Hillsborough Community College Student Publication since 1978.

Glassy Graves

by Elijah Thompson

The next sip is always the best, always better than
the last without question. The rationalization is that no
one else would understand, so I start to think that this
is just how I deal with things. “Take another one,” my
mind whispers to me through the haze of depression,
“The next one is going to make this all go away… I
Promise.” I believe it every time. It feels too good not
to believe it. I would happily drown myself in a bath
of my best friends Jack, Jim or Johnny, or set myself
ablaze with the sweet scent of charred oak fi lling
my nostrils. The softest death I have encountered
in this life is the one that occurs as I finally tilt that
bottle back and drain the last drop of its life blood
that it so willingly gives me every time. It’s as if I am
the priest that has come to exorcise the bottle of its
distilled demons, sending them straight from their
own personal hell right into mine. I love every second
of it. Especially the first taste that sets your throat on
fire and numbs your tongue, until all you can taste
is the wide-open cask of golden ambrosia bringing
you closer to the horned god that welcomes you into
his warm embrace like a long lost brother. Lost, of
course, but certainly not for long. You tilt that bottle
back and tell me that the light playing within those
heavenly fermented grains doesn’t look like a road
map home. A home that neither god nor angel can
follow you into. And why would I want them there
anyways? Salvation is something that I have neither
the time nor the inclination to attempt for. Not while I
have my lovely little devil telling me that I’ll be okay
through it all. Who am I to tell such a divine being
that it’s wrong? Here I sit, looking not for a heavenly
sense of salvation, but for an earthly rendezvous
with the devil of my own making. If you’ll excuse me
I have a bottle shaped door to knock on with a very
special friend of mine waiting behind it.

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