The Sober Diaries Novels & Stories

she announces. Mick tries to hide his face in the couch and mumbles for everyone to leave, that he's ashamed. Jim, a big man who always shares in the group how his divorce triggered his drinking, chuckles softly. "Don't worry, kid. I had a relapse in my second week. Alberta had to retrieve my drunk ass from my son's wedding," he says. "I had my relapse at three years after losing my job. I started counting again, and I've been sober for a year now. There's nothing to be ashamed of," Celeste, another group member, says.

Shaking my head for being this distracted, i walked over to my desk and opened the top drawer. Diaries, notebooks and my year book stared at me from within the top drawer and i was hit by a sudden wave of emotions. Reaching in, i picked out the first Diary on top of may. The cover looked old and the corners were starting to rip. The last day i wrote on my last Diary was after i started therapy with Dr. Goodman. Saying and then writing the same thing over and over again was starting to lose its appeal so, I'd stopped. Smiling a bit, i placed the Diary on the desk, knowing i wouldn't leave it behind. I took a deep breath of heavily perfumed air and looked back into the drawer. Not reaching for

I stared at his near-lifeless corpse for a few minutes, then shimmied out of bed, cleaned myself up, threw on jeans, a t-shirt, sandals, and drove down to the local all-night coffee shop, “The Daily Grind.” Grabbing a decaf mocha with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, I sat at a corner table and flipped through a dog-eared newspaper. If someone described me then, they’d say: 21-ish blonde, long hair over my shoulders, nice D-cup breasts, cute face that looks good without makeup, good legs, and a vaguely pissed-off look.

she repeated, startled, instinctively turning toward him, as worry began overriding the heat rushing to her face. The moment she moved, his other hand came up, covering her eyes. “Don’t look,” he murmured. If she had seen him, she would have understood immediately. He was a mess. He was shirtless. His skin was damp with sweat. His muscles were drawn tight beneath the strain of control. His hair was disheveled, his breathing uneven, his entire body tense like a man standing at the edge of his sanity. The drug was still burning through his system. That woman.

Sia was hopeless and felt worthless after visiting Joe’s house. She got nothing to lose, so she went back home. She went into depression for many months and couldn’t come over the fact that Joe got married. She became a bad nasty girl. Sia started getting super drunk every day and dated random guys. She was addicted to smoking and could not live without sex. Her personality totally changed, and she started to stay out of the house often. Most of the time, she was in clubs or bars doing God knows what.

She's kneeling on the wet ground with coffee soaking through her hoodie. Even surrounded by the cruel laughter of the other girls, even with her books scattered and ruined across the pavement, her large amber-gold eyes are locked only on a ruined leather diary as though its contents mattered more than the laughter around her—she doesn't cry. She doesn't scream. She just kneels there in that ridiculous, too-long hoodie and starts wiping the coffee from the pages with shaking fingers.

I don't care about their judgements and what anyone thinks the world could perish for all I care. I slipped my flip flops and stretched my tired limbs. I had the best sleep in months. Who wouldn't? My plans are close to actualization. I walked to my drawer and picked my sacred diary, diary of sins and ran my fingers on the surface before spreading the first page and his name popped up. "ADRIAN CUBAN." In bold letters and a hot tear rolled down my left cheek.

**David’s POV** Here in my New York apartment, as the relentless city rain echoes my mood, I find myself repeatedly drawn to the old, worn pages of Scarlet’s diary. This morning, the echoes of last night's indulgence weigh heavy, a migraine pulsing in the background as I numb it with the usual analgesic. But the diary demands attention once again. I flip to the last entry, a letter penned for me, her "Bumblebee," written in a moment of profound solitude and clarity.

Some people are not cut out for making trouble just like others. After a year of working as a high class girl, I paid for my mom's complete treatment and luckily it was successful. The doctor advised her to not do anything stressful for a while till she completely becomes her usual strong self. I was so happy that I couldn't explain it. She asked me one time where I got that huge amount of money for her surgery "You don't have to worry Mom, a friend of mine helped me out" I laughed it out. What? What would my mom think if I told her that I work in the country's one of the best clubs every night? She would immediately think that it's a prostitute and collapse which might result in another sic

Zion nudges Diana, “Don’t call her like that.” “What? But it’s true.” Diana rubs the spot where Zion nudged her. “She’s so silent and shy when she’s not drunk but when she’s had a lot of alcohol, she becomes a whole different person. There was one time when Olivia and I caught her talking to herself in the mirror. Totally sober.” Zion shakes his head, “She’s just really obsessed with Harry no matter how many times he turns her down nicely. Georgie’s nice, don’t worry Merry. ”