This is just a short story I wrote back in school. It'll be up for a few. Enjoy!
---------------
“Mr. Jones, the tests results did not come back so well. I’m sorry to say that you do have diabetes.”
“How? Why? How could this have happened?!”
“It’s Type 1. Genetics. You could have had some screwed up gene which screwed up your whole system.”
This news frightened Thomas Jones. Tom was a young man, going onto the ripe age of 20, and he just found out he had diabetes. Not much scared him, but he felt scared this very morning.
Tom always thought he was sick. Earlier in the week he was with his friends when he made the comment that he thought he had diabetes. They all thought he was just making this statement in a drunken haze. He didn’t even believe himself, until this very morning.
“What happens if I drink?” Tom asked the doctor. The doctor told him the percussions of him drinking, and that to live a healthy successful life of diabetes, that he has to eliminate, or regulate his drinking. This news did not go over well with Tom.
Tom was a writer. He wanted nothing else to do with his life, but write. He was currently in correspondence with a talent agency showing his screenplays that he wrote. They loved his unique writing style. He got his mindset when he wrote by drinking, and he was just told that he can no longer do one of his passions, drinking heavily.
“How am I going to write?!” Tom thought to himself on that long drive back to civilization. He neared his house and it set in a little bit more. His lifestyle has to change. Normally Tom would disobey any orders, and continue to drink heavily, for he had a horrible drinking problem, but he was afraid. He did not want to go blind or lose limbs. That thought frightened him to death.
That night Tom sat up all night frustrated. Staring at the blinking cursor on his computer of his empty document. Nothing. He could write nothing.
“I’ll sleep it off…yeah that’s what I’ll do,” as Tom crawled into bed. He knew this wasn’t going to help. Tossing and turning Tom cracked under the tension and popped the cork of a wine bottle. Guzzling down every last drop he frantically typed away on his laptop. Page after page was worked out until he slumped over in alcoholic slumber.
The next morning he knew what he did was wrong. Tom didn’t know what else to do. He set a deadline to finish the script he had multiple ideas for in his head, but the only way he knew how to fuel his mind was with booze. The night rolled around, again trying to write sober. Nothing. Empty pages sat on the screen, but this night he chose not to drink. He fought the night demons and finally fell asleep on his own will.
Tom always spoke of writing all his life. He wanted to make it with his writing and go out with a bang. “How can I write sober? All I’ve ever wanted to do was be able to drink myself silly and write. I need my alcohol to write,” Tom thought to himself. Nightfall came around again and Tom was at his computer. He caved under pressure and brought out a large bottle of whiskey. Tom needed his fuel. Glass after glass, and page after page were finished.
Tom knew what he was doing was a risk. This was worth it to him. “Finish this!” Tom kept saying to himself. With his tank on full, Tom was going to complete what he thought was his best screenplay ever. “They’re going to love this one! It’s the best. This one will be picked up for sure, I know it will! It has to!” Tom muttered to himself. He came down to his last line and let out a sigh of relief. A giant grin broke out on his face as he typed those last words, ‘The End’. He was content.
Daybreak came around and Tom’s parents were at the dining room table. The clock was ticking away. Hours passed and Tom still hasn’t emerged from his room. His dad was reading the paper; his mom was gazing at the television oblivious to this unusual seclusion of Tom. Another hour passes, finally setting in to his mother.
“Have you seen Tom yet this morning?” she asks Tom’s father. He hadn’t. “I guess I’ll go wake him up. He probably was up all night.” Tom’s mom casually strolled down the hall with her cup of coffee when she came to his door. Quietly she opened the door to check on her child. The door creaked, followed by the sound of shattering glass. His mother let out a scream as her broken mug and spilt coffee lie in a puddle around her.
Chatboard (0)