A while ago, I read a book, Sold by Patricia McCormick. She wrote the story in short stanzas. After I had read it I thought, ‘Hey, she can write however she wants. Why can’t I?’ So I’m trying this new writing style. This isn’t exactly how she wrote her book but it just came to me. So it can go in two directions: destruction or righteousness. We’ll see, won’t we?
I take a drink from the bottle.
I feel the burning as the alcohol makes its way down my throat.
“Sean,” I say, no longer in control of my actions. “Don’t let me get drunk.”
Taking the bottle from my hands, he smirks slightly.
Sitting the bottle down on the table and hitting the light switch, he laughs.
I know what he’s going to say. He said it the night before and even before that.
It’s a routine for us. As if it has to happen this way every night.
It’s as if it happened any other way, it wouldn’t be the same.
Maybe it wouldn’t. I don’t know. It's never happened any other way before.
“Babe,” he says sweetly as he kisses me lightly. “You are drunk.”
And I laugh because it’s true.
And I laugh because I don’t care.
And I laugh because he doesn’t care.
And I know I won’t be laughing for long.
Maybe it would sound better as, 'He said it the night before and the one before that.' Something along those lines anyway.
