I'll Stick Around

I could feel the tension in the air as I walked into the studio that night. Brenna and her family were upset with me, and I couldn’t bear to go and face their disapproving glares. So, I’d made up my mind to stay out as long as I could, hoping to maybe crash on the worn-out sofa in the studio. I knew I was taking advantage of the owner’s kindness, but at that point, I felt like I had no other options. My drunkenness had woven itself so deeply into the fabric of my life that I had become an unwanted presence, an embarrassment that people couldn’t wait to distance themselves from. As I walked into the dimly lit studio, the air was thick with the smell of weed and cigarette smoke. The dull, gray clouds seemed to hover like a shroud, reflecting the heaviness I felt in my heart. I sank into the old, tattered sofa, feeling its springs press uncomfortably against my back. I clutched the brown paper bag that held my salvation for the night – a few cheap cans of beer that would provide a temporary escape from the hell my life had become. All around me, the room buzzed with energy as artists and engineers worked together to create something beautiful, chasing their dreams with passion and determination. And there I was, just a ghost in the corner, drowning my sorrows in a sea of alcohol. I took a long swig of the bitter liquid, feeling its familiar burn as it traveled down my throat. With each gulp, I felt myself slipping further away from the vibrant, talented performer I once was. I tried to focus on the music, but the sounds seemed muffled like I was listening to them from underwater. My vision began to blur as the alcohol took hold, and my head bobbed up and down like a buoy adrift in a stormy sea. The once vibrant beats and melodies became a distant hum as I struggled to stay conscious. I could feel the curious and judgmental eyes of the people around me, but I was past caring. I was trapped in the vicious cycle of my addiction, and every sip of beer felt like another nail in my own coffin. The room seemed to spin, and the weight of my eyelids grew heavier as I fought the urge to nod off. I knew I was becoming an embarrassment, a spectacle for others to witness as they tried to go about their work. The laughter and conversation in the room had an edge to it now, and I could feel the disdain and pity directed at me. But still, I continued to drink, desperately trying to block out the world that I had come to despise. As I finally succumbed to the drunken stupor, I wondered if I could ever find the strength to listen to that voice and make a change for the sake of my wife, my unborn child, and myself.

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