Drinking: A Narrative Fiction

My relationship with drugs first began during my senior year of high school. While most of my peers attended their first parties years earlier, my first was not until I was already 17 years old. I still remember feeling so cool for attending my first party and having my first sip of alcohol. The feeling of being drunk was unlike anything I had ever felt before. I felt liberated, like I could break out of my quiet shell and be that fun, goofy person that everyone wanted to hang out with. Prior to this night I had never used any type of substance, legal or illegal. Since then I have continued using alcohol while also trying various different types of drugs including caffeine, marijuana, tobacco, and adderall.

She bolted to her feet despite being asleep only moments before. "Not again," she muttered through gritted teeth, expertly throwing on a pair of tennis shoes and rushing out of the burning room. The girl dropped

“I…” Nyame trailed off, taken aback by his reply. She watched wordlessly for a few moments as he guzzled down another glass of wine. That should have stopped her. Alex drinking so much was a sure sign that he was beyond the anger point. She could visibly see the change in his eyes, the way he spoke where biting in tempo. It was all downhill from here. There would be no reconciliation tonight and somewhere in her heart she regretted that but it was background noise to her enraged thoughts.

“Never seen that man before in my life.” he voiced, tilting his hat down more. Irritated, the female stomped away, heading to the next table. His hazel eyes followed the woman until she ended up at the other end of the bar. After gulping his drink, he faltered to the back door with a concerned look on his face. He prayed that the female distracted herself with the other bar patrons.

From the time I entered freshman year in high school I knew my mother had a problem. Picking your drunken mother up off the floor on a Wednesday night is not normal; other teenagers don't do that. How do you tell your mother you need her to stop drinking? I wanted to tell the woman who gave me life that I did not feel comfortable in her home.

Several drinks later the frustrations that had been coursing throughout my veins had ceased and were replaced with a sense of tranquility. The dispute between Audrina and me had been forcefully driven to the back of my conscience mind. I could vaguely hear the low hums from the granite countertop, but I was trying with every ounce of strength to remove the agitation from my ears. Audrina was fuming at the ears; she was in no mood to talk kindly to or about me at this point. I had never fully grasped her concept or hatred towards my drinking; I just knew she incandescently angered by it. Any chance she got the chance she would ramble with no end about the ‘negative repercussions’ that I would have to face. She would always go on about how my addiction had no benefactors for my body or my mind. She would always have this small crease that

During my younger years I learned a lot; as I became older and approached teenage years my parents always taught me to not participate in underage drinking, drugs, and other illegal activities. Parents told me all the negative effects alcohol can have on you mentally, physically, and emotionally. I knew as I got older and began going to parties with my friends that there would be drinking and other activities going on that I should choose as an individual not to participate in. I always kept what my parents taught me in the back of my mind whenever going out to keep my self safe, out of trouble, and make my parents proud, but this particular night I ran into some trouble. It was a warm Saturday night in the middle of the July.

I started walking home from gymnastics -which I have from every Monday to Friday 3:30 to 6:00 - my dad, well step-dad is a alcoholic so he could not drive. I'd rather not crash. My mom is at work so we can live cause Fred does not work which means she is almost never home. Now I'm walking home now. 1 mile walk yippe.

“Howdy!” Amber greeted Claire as she pushed open the door. “Oops!” The door had hit Claire, knocking her down a set of concrete stairs.

Pedro, a wounded veteran Mexican American male is struggling with alcoholism. Recently, Pedro became aware that he struggles with drinking after getting a DUI. While Pedro has accepted that he may have PTSD and has been placed on a waitlist for inpatient alcohol treatment he does not want to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in his own community. As a counselor it is important that we take cultural differences in consideration when treating Pedro. Pedro comes from many different backgrounds that could affect the way he is approached in a therapy session. First, Pedro is a the oldest son of his first generation migrant parents. It is important to look into his cultural background to see if being the eldest son could affect his perception

She fell onto the ground; her heel had broken from all of the fighting. She fought a few seconds to regain her composure and ran out the salon door.

'wait... what?' She looked down at her arms and then at the door. The door was sealed firmly shut but she was not tied down heavily at all and a couple of firm wriggles after she was free of the table and with a drugged cry her body hit the cold floor. Surrounding her were the instruments that they had been using to poke and prod at her, some still covered in her own blood and of course that large syringe lying where it had been dropped.

“Please tell me you’re not talking about the alcoholic,” Rowan made an exaggerated expression of disgust. “That poor man had more issue than strange forms of male pattern baldness.” She waded to a shallower part of the river and followed after them, dragging one of the baskets after her. There was a smaller rock near the one they settled on and she perched herself on it, continuing her scrubbing. "It's started to become his go-to course of action when he's upset with me. You know he started that up again,right? Apparently he's found another one.“ She purposefully bypassed her other comments. It was too early for that type of conversation. With a sigh she gave Bessie an apologetic glance. “I think it has something to do with that client that

“Alice,” he began somewhat nervously, “there’s someone here to see you. . . .” Miss Brooks swivelled her chair to see what he was talking about. A tall, elderly woman shuffled in after him.

In reality, though his approach was welcoming, Josh expected to fobbed off with a friendly smile, or shake of the head, or even to possibly be ignored when he offered to buy the new arrival a drink. It wasn't that he was unattractive, however, how many times did a woman accept the offer from a perfect stranger within two seconds of meeting him, and having never exchanged a word? No matter how young she was, and as Josh awaited her response, he scanned her face, the youthful features telling him she was a lonh way short of legal drinking age, she must be aware that 'free' drinks never came for free, and that any man who offered them would eventually want something in return, and that would usually be what was between her legs.