Mitchell's Mustard Blog

June 3, 2014

Skint and Sober

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:22 pm

He sat, pondering on the things in front of him. The way things flowed past without his involvement. He could step forward and be part of the movement, the intimidating movement. It was the intimidating part that kept him in his seat, his weighted body, carrying the thoughts of yesterday and fears of tomorrow. His pint was sour. Before it had reached him, it was poured by beauty, a golden glow that enticed the many. In his hand, it was a weapon for his thoughts, a reason to sway in and out of a path he once stumbled. The days he was unstoppable, uncontrollable, invincible. It’s when the crowds stop cheering, your audience stops following, your band stops playing. It all changed, it all stopped, it was only his addictions that carried on. It had taken him years to conquer heroin, the substance that drained him of his money, his fame, his friends, but worst of all, his marriage. The rock that held him together walked out and left him with the only other rock he knew, the narcotic kind. He hadn’t seen his wife and children in nearly three years, he didn’t even know how to contact them. He feared she would one day see his name in the obituaries, and then keep turning the pages without a blink. His pride wished she knew that he was clean now. In the Hollywood life style in which he had been sold, she would come back to him, hold him and tell him all was ok. But he knew the Hollywood lifestyle was a farce, a rabbit hole he had tumbled down, with every bump, he had lost a little of him and gained a little of them. The ones that love and surround you until you’re skint and sober, dropped like a hat in a coastal wind.
The beauty that poured his last pint asked if he’d like another. Not realising he had finished the last, he had been rolling the empty glass between his palms, his wedding ring making a rhythmic chime. This is probably what caught her attention.
The new golden glow of the glass stared into his eyes, the cold on his hands, he thought of her.
He needed to pull his life together, find his family, recreate his existence. He told himself this everyday, but as always, the beauty behind the bar kept working, the stool he sat on stayed warm, and the golden glass kept staring into his soul. Once an addict, always an addict she had said. As always, she was right, wherever she was.

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