The beginning

I remember it like it was yesterday, when I first started drinking.

It was a windy August day, the sun was shining through the blinds when I woke up, and I felt the fresh summer breeze on my skin.

My day had started off just like any other. I had gone out to the terrace for my usual cigarette and coffee, accompanied by nothing else than my favorite thriller. I must have read that book a thousand times, yet I never found myself able to put it down till I’m reading the very last word.

By the time I had finished it, it must’ve been around noon, so I got up and finally made myself something to eat, before slumping down on the couch to watch yet another movie. It’s true, during the holidays I wouldn’t find myself being very productive, but to be honest I didn’t mind; I had worked hard all year round and I deserved those two blissful weeks of relaxation.

It was by the end of the second movie I had watched that day that I became bored. Truly, completely bored.

I had never quite felt that way before. Sure, boredom is something that is somewhat natural, but for the first time in my life, I found myself pleading the clock to go just a little faster, hoping that maybe sometime later, I’d find myself something to do, or maybe my friends would.

Oh, I might’ve forgotten to mention them — my friends. We were away on holiday just the three of us, in a beautiful place, just off the coast of Majorca. But the days drooled on, they were unwell and I knew no one here, and there’s only so much you can do to help someone who’s sick.

So I would just wait, walk around the house for a bit, try and find a book I didn’t already know by heart, but nothing could fill the empty space that time was creating deep inside me.

That’s when it started.

I went back to the kitchen to prepare my fourth coffee of the day. Anything to make the time pass. Anything to preoccupy myself.

It’s when I was rummaging through the cupboards, looking for a new box of instant coffee, that I finally found it. That precious bottle.

It was hidden all the way back, probably being saved for a particular occasion, maybe half full, a bottle of 12 year old Bourbon.

Its brown amber color called to me, and I couldn’t resist the idea of doing what I’d seen so many times before, in movies, and pouring just a little in my coffee.

So I did, just to try, and went back on the terrasse to enjoy my first ever alcoholic coffee.

It was somewhat bitter, but I enjoyed it, the first few gulps burning just a little in my throat made me feel a rush I hadn’t felt in a while, and before I knew it, the mug was empty.

My friends fast asleep on the couch, I got up and poured myself some more — still in my mug as to not attract suspicions in case my friends were to wake up.

By the end, I must have downed a good half of what was left.

I didn’t think much of it at the time; how could I have? I was 18, discovering the world for what it was as an adult. I was young, adventurous, life was full of possibilities for me and they were endless. I was the king of the world.

Not so much now, I thought to myself as I polished off my third wine bottle of the evening, staring at nothing but the empty chair that sat before me, nagging me.