alcoholic - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He was an alcoholic. Years of alcohol abuse had left his cheeks rosy and his mind dull-witted. He knew drying out would be a painful process and he had no intention of ever going through it. He was determined to stay drunk until he died.
When he was discharged from the Army with PTSD, he refused therapy. He didn't see what good it would do. Being around him was like waiting for a bomb to go off and after a time his family left him. That's when he turned to the drink more heavily than he had before, now there was no-one to tell him to lay off, to say he'd had enough. Now the bottle was his only friend and it didn't improve his temper.
When the beer ran out he would drive to the off license drunk. He knew he shouldn't but he couldn't bear to sober up.
He never had a sober day if he could help it. He did everything drunk. He drove, shopped and went to work drunk. He never had less than four full bottles of Gin and a case of beer in the house. That was his emergency rations and he immediately went shopping if he reached that level. Yet he would never describe himself as an alcoholic. He figured he could quit anytime he wanted to.
Her father got her into it. Years of coming home and watching him drink the beer bottle empty inspired her. She wanted to know what was so great about the little can that everybody seemed to consume. So one day, she got her hands on them. She twist open the cap and took a small sip. The alcohol left a burning sensation. A sensation for more. She knew she shouldn't have tried. But, the sweet taste of the lethal drink lured her for more. Little did she know, it was the beginning of her journey as an alcoholic.
He was older than his true age. Years of drinking had robbed him of his youth. He was sober now, and it was a glorious day. It was late afternoon, late autumn, and the sunlight filtered through the trees. Oaks and pines stood tall and surrounded the building like soldiers on guard duty. With the leaves gone, we could see through the trees into the distance. Cliff and I sat on top of the roof of the building. He was the janitor and had scaled the ladder to check for shingles that were loose. Cliff had seizures, so I climbed up there to see if he was Okay. As we took in the view, he spoke of his family from the hills of Tennessee, of how he and his brother made and sold “light lightening.” He became quiet, locked his eyes to the sunlight through the trees, “The main trouble was my brother and I were our best customers. We got drunk every day.”
It could have been water in the glass but it wasn't. It wasn't and everyone knew it. Even at three in the afternoon that transparent liquid that bathed Grandpa's ice was vodka and that wasn't even the start of it. There was brandy in his morning orange juice, "just to give it a little kick". If he was ever drinking coffee mid-morning there was whiskey in it too, cream liqueur if he could get it. By dinner time he was slumped in his chair, dribbling between the snores. It really was best to leave him that way, waking him meant him rambling on about the war, about how Granny died, about how she was the best woman there ever was and ever will be. Drying him out wasn't an option either, not unless he got a hospital admission, Mom wasn't going to try taking care of him detoxing at home. So the cupboard was stocked 24/7 with booze we weren't allowed to touch. There really was no need to tell us though, no-one wanted to end up a drunk of the couch.
The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. Along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles; every vice that Derek had been ordered to avoid. He raised a shaky finger to call the server, and when they did not appear he turned his head slowly to his right to watch her scrubbing the glass of the chiller cabinet, recently re-stuffed with those stupid garish alco-pops all the teens were slurping faster than coca-cola. "It must be near closing," he thought to himself. Even in his alcoholic stupor his heart rate rose a little and his face flushed even pinker. "Hey!" he called, "'ow 'bout 'rink, 'iskey." The girl turned her head, the professional smile she'd worn all night was quite gone. Her eyes were pink, lids sagging and her face hung loose and long.
"We're closed, Derek. Go home." Then she returned to the glass. He wobbled on the high stool, his leg buckling when he stood...