Drunk Thoughts Are Sober Novels & Stories

I thanked him softly and closed the door, retreating to the solitude of the room once more. I sat on the floor, the bottle of beer in hand. With trembling fingers, I flipped open the cap and took a long, desperate gulp. The bitter liquid burned my throat, and I relished the sensation. It was something, anything, to distract me from the overwhelming weight of my promise. As I drank, my thoughts wandered in a race. The room spun around me, and I welcomed the disorientation. I was still thinking, but the thoughts were like scattered puzzle pieces, impossible to piece together into a coherent whole. That was what I wanted-to get the thoughts off my head.

I needed something to drink to stop me from overthinking. My eyes landed on the liquor cabinet near the fireplace. I stared at it for a while before walking to it. I grabbed a bottle. Opened it. And drank straight from the neck. The liquid scorched its way down my throat. And in a moment the bottle was nearly empty. I sat alone in the darkness of my room. The moonlight spilled through the windows. The alcohol dulled the edges of my thoughts. But not enough. Because even drunk… there was only two things on my mind:

I have a speech in my head of what I want to say, angry and sad at the same time, my mind turning over a chaos of words and accusations that I know I wouldn’t have the guts to say if I was sober. I walk the rest of the way as the rain turns to drizzle and I’m soaked through to my underwear. My hair is still tied up in a ponytail and acting as a tap for the water to run down my back and into my boots. I feel like my clothes are stuck to every part of me and I must look like I went swimming while fully clothed. I just have nothing else on my brain than the task I have set myself upon, too stupidly, drunkenly stubborn for my own good.

“I want to do this while I’m drunk.” “Why?” “Because I can’t fucking face this while I'm sober.” “So, okay,” I say, thinking that I’m coming up with a brilliant plan. “What about I sober up, and tomorrow night you get drunk and we come back here.” “I’m leaving at sunrise. And I try not to come here if I can help it.”

The thought made my stomach twist with jealousy. Unable to control my thoughts while being sober, I decided to head to a bar close by. I needed a drink to calm my nerves and distract myself from the thoughts that were swirling in my head. As I walked into the bar, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. Where was Regina, and what was she doing?

I guess I knew that I don’t want to die, just yet. I walked back to the spot where I sat a few moments ago and grabbed the last can of beer. I only bought two cans thinking that two was more than enough for me, but it sure wasn’t enough. I’m starting to feel the heat from the few percent of alcohol but it wasn’t enough to make my thoughts fuzzy. I didn’t know I wanted to be drunk until now. I feel like getting drunk was the one and only way to forget about the pain and all of these rotten thoughts that seemed adamant at running around my head. I wanted to get wasted just to forget about everything and quite honestly, everyone. At least for about a few hours and when I’m sober, I might have t

Sienna I lay flat on my back across the sofa, one arm draped over my forehead to block out the sharp glare of the overhead recessed lighting, while the other hand loosely dangled off the edge of the cushions. The smooth, cool glass of a heavy crystal tumbler was pressed against my palm, threatening to slip from my fingers every time my mind drifted. I was drunk. Drunk as fuck, honestly. The heavy, burning heat of whatever expensive amber liquid I had poured from the bar was currently sloshing around in my empty stomach, turning my thoughts into a thick, slow-moving fog.

“No — I do. My heart — does, my — brain doesn't. But I love — you — and I don't know — how. You are — swallowing me whole — without even trying. I'm — absolved with thoughts of you, — my head, it — hurts badly because — I keep thinking — so much about you, it's — driving me crazy.” I sat there and just stared at her. I wanted to kiss those words off her lips, but I'm sure it would only complicate things, since she shouldn't be thinking, she shouldn't get this stressed. It was obvious she was having a hard time as I caressed the beaded sweats off her forehead, and she looked up at me, a sigh escaping her lips. “I — was told not — to think for a reason. And — now I know why, because — because

I'm wearing one of Brian's shirts and my pajama shorts and that's good enough. I get out of the bedroom and I walk straight to the kitchen as if my feet have their own brain. Drinking always shuts my brain when I get all stupid like this. It numbs me and makes me feel all giggly instead of anxious, especially wine or champagne. “No, no, no,” I tell myself and shake my head. I can’t drink if I’m going home, Harry still thinks I’m sober. And I know he wouldn’t mind if I show up drunk, he would not scold me or anything, but I think he would be disappointed.

He walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a bottle of whiskey. --- I slide into the private booth beside him and pour myself a drink from the bottle. He swallows a loud gulp, winces, and drops the glass with a thud to the table. "You're drinking in the middle of the day." I shrug. Maybe the drink will dull the spiral of my thoughts. I'd tried work, but it hadn't worked out much. I'd even spent an hour at the gym, punching at the bag, hitting my fear for her into the bag, and the murky swirl of thoughts had somehow become worse. "So are you, Rafe. What do you want?"