Bottles (Fiction)

Empty bottles litter this tiny single room apartment. An old inexpensive ‘L’ shaped desk hugs the opposite corner from the entrance.  The one window allows the sun to shine on the longest part of the desk and on an unfinished painting.

When he was eighteen years old he ate an entire eighth of magic mushrooms. His trip lasted six hours and peaked for a good three and a half.  He slept and when he woke he was different. About his goals he gave a fuck and started to produce art immediately.  Before his psychedelic experience he just talked a lot.

He partied less but still smoked his cannabis, sativa strains to stay focussed while he worked and indica strains to help him sleep.  He drank, but only socially.  He produced work on a regular basis, two sometimes even three paintings a week and and one to two sculptures a month.  Galleries from all over the world wanted him and museums borrowed his work to show at fund raisers.

He was fucking rich and popular.  Not quite celebrity status but popular enough to get into certain night clubs without paying or waiting in line.  He also attended several celebrity parties and as a result began to neglect his true friends.  He didn’t care.  He thought the new people in his life were his new family.

Years passed.  He thought he was living the life until he came across another bag of mushrooms.  He was among his new crowd when he decided to once again take an entire eighth.  His trip was not fun at all.  He saw through everyone and realized that none of them really cared about him.  While coming down he called a couple of people from his early years and out of the four he dialed only one picked up.  A woman he was seeing.   When she found out he was on mushrooms she let him have it.  Pointed out when and how he fucked up his past relationships and how it was too late to mend them.

He stopped hanging out with people he felt were just using him because of his popularity – which was pretty much everyone he came into contact with.  He fell into a depression but still produced work, still showed at galleries and attended the openings and mingled with his collectors.  But it wasn’t the same.  His creativity started to fade and so did his income.

A year ago his cat died.  And two weeks ago his dog passed.  A week later he saw a doctor and was prescribed Xanax.  The doctor told him that the weed he smoked was probably intensifying his depression.  The doc being a professional, he listened he stopped blazing and only took the pills.  He followed the instructions and never drank a sip of alcohol while on the medication.  But now he’s sixty years old and alone.  He was working on his client’s painting after popping a pill when he was struck by the idea “I can end this shit when ever I want.”

He took a shower then went for a walk, to the market.  Bought himself an orange and a bottle of Vodka.  When he got home, he put on some music, sat on the floor, peeled his orange and after eating it walked on his knees to his desk and with a brush painted the word “sorry” at the bottom of the incomplete painting.   He grabbed the bottle of liquor, drank a quarter of it and unlocked his door.  Then he picked up the bottle of pills, and swallowed all of them.  He put on some ambient music then with his bottle of liquor sat against the wall next to his desk.  Leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, shed a few tears and there he left his body to rest.

Copyright Jesse Velasquez TrappedInFlesh.com. All Rights Reserved.