One Hundred and Four

CW: This story contains themes or mentions of substance abuse and violence

"What a great day it was," he thought as he slid the key into the lock.

The door to his flat answered with the now usual, short but triumphant trumpet sound as it opened. He had meant to fix it for months, but never did. He started to like the sound. It made him feel as if he were winning.

Tom left his shoes on as he entered, not because he planned to go out again. He just didn't notice. Mentally, he was still in the café. Still across from Mark, who had flown all the way from Canada that morning. Last time Mark had visited, they had spoken through glass, surrounded by the smell of sweat, iron, and bleach. A guard had watched them like a bored referee before saying, "Time's up," and leading Tom back to his prison cell.

This time it was different. No visiting hours. Apart from the café window, when he saw Mark inside, sitting and waiting as he crossed the street, no glass between them. No guard. Just a barista with an exaggerated smile and questionable tattoos, the smell of overpriced coffee and warm pastries.

They shook hands and hugged. Tom told him immediately: "One hundred and four days."

He repeated it twice more before their drinks arrived. Mark congratulated him every time.

"Makes sense you wanted a coffee shop," Mark said, smiling, aware that a third "congratulations" would have sounded strange.

Tom smiled too, adding more sugar to his cappuccino and stirring with the dirty spoon before he could notice the stain on it.

It hadn't been easy giving up on what once made him feel invincible. He used to hate the first sip. He didn't mind the second. After the third, nothing and no one could stop him. Alcohol used to make him confident. Funny. And angry.

For a brief moment, he remembered that night, three in the morning, walking home, alone, drunk, invincible. Two boys thought he'd be an easy target and tried to rob him. He resisted. Then attacked. They didn't know he wouldn't stop until one's head was bleeding against the pavement. The other ran. Tom chased him, but tripped as he was about to catch him. Fell. He looked up just in time to see the boy disappear. Only then did he notice the sirens, growing, closing in. The red and blue lights washed over the houses. He went back to explain and tell them he was the victim. He'd been met with guns pointing at him, shouts, and handcuffs. Tom screamed as the police tightened the cuffs. His wrist was swollen from the fall.

The boy survived, but was never the same.

When he got out, four months later, Tom went straight to the pub. He got angry again. But this time, he felt something new. He was scared, scared of what he was capable of. What if next time he wasn't so lucky? It took two weeks of arguing with himself. Making excuses. Making promises. Then he stopped drinking. One hundred and four days ago.

Tom mechanically emptied his pockets on the table of his living room. Wallet. Keys. Lighter. Chewing gum. Then he strategically placed his phone next to the couch. Shoes still on. Went to the kitchen, filled a glass of water and drank it in three big gulps, before returning and lying down on the couch. He'd take the shoes off in a minute, but first a bit of social media to distract himself. After all, he deserved it. Outside it was already dark, the room only dimly lit by the light of his phone screen, washing his unimpressed face in different colours with every scroll. A beautiful landscape. AI slop. Unfunny stand-up comedians. Street interviews. Quickly getting bored of each one and punishing the algorithm with a swift thumb movement.

Then an ad.

He stopped and looked, as if in a trance.

A Mediterranean background, an orange sunset, warmth, and an empty glass with ice. A deep, masculine voice telling him "Celebrate your achievements," as an invisible hand holding a whiskey bottle started filling up around a third of the glass. "So stupid," he thought. "Who would fall for this?" His thumb teleported him to the next reel before the ad could finish. Then another, then another, then something weird happened. His thumb started going the other direction, as if it had a mind of its own. He found himself back on the ad. The background, the voice, the sound of ice as the brown liquor hit it was hypnotic. He quickly shook his head and said to the device:

"You're so nosy, aren't you, always listening. Are you listening to me right now?"

The phone ignored him and kept playing the ad, now showing waves, people with sunglasses laughing and cheering on top of a beautiful hill.

"I think you misunderstood what I meant earlier. I'm sober now. Stop showing me this, okay?"

The ad stopped, a message appearing on the screen as the voice read it: "Why miss it? Live it." A big button slowly faded in the middle of his screen. "Buy now."

He looked at it, stunned. A glass would actually be nice. Mark still drank. He could have just one glass, relax a bit, then gift the rest of the bottle to his friend. Would be nice. He earned it. One hundred and four days, he definitely did. Even more so, maybe a glass would remind him why he stopped in the first place, motivate him to stay sober. And who even gets drunk from just one glass? Might even be healthy. Or was that wine? No, he never liked the sourness of wine. His shoes were still on.

Like in a trance, Tom stood up, picked up his keys and wallet, and headed towards the shop.

He barely remembered the walk back. Only the crossings. The cold air. And the words repeating in his head:

"Just one glass."

Again.

"Just one glass."

The bottle defiantly looked at him from the kitchen countertop, the brown liquid, calm and still inside the seductively shaped glass. It had cost him more than he remembered. Tom didn't mind. All he could remember now were the people with sunglasses, laughing on a beautiful hill. Laughing with him. A happy moment.

He looked for the remote, found it between the pillows of the couch and turned the TV on. He had mounted it on the wall not too long ago. It must have been about three weeks. Tom was very proud of it, leaving space for a ridiculously long soundbar on the TV stand just beneath the screen. He started typing quickly on the remote, followed by the bass of the song flooding the room. Something about dancing. About tonight. About living the moment. About partying. An artist named after a dog breed.

Then he carefully opened the bottle.

The cork unleashing the bottle echoed through the room, quickly replaced by the chorus of the song. Tom took a clean glass, added two ice cubes from the fridge, and poured the liquor. It didn't sound the same as in the ad, but faded and distant instead. When the liquid reached the top of the ice cubes, he stopped pouring. Smiling, he drank.

Tom made a disgusted face as soon as the whiskey touched his tongue. The first sip. Then he swallowed, smiling again at the familiar burning sensation sliding down his throat.

Another sip. It didn't burn as much. Almost pleasant. He started relaxing, like meeting an old friend after a very long time. A comforting friend. He was one sip away from finishing the first glass. One sip away from the final goodbye. Tom shook the glass in slow, circular motions, looked at it, and downed the glass, the ice touching his upper lip as he became invincible.

He rinsed the glass and let the ice fall in the sink with a loud clink. He pushed the cork back onto the neck of the bottle, and sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, looking at the bottle, then laughed at himself, thinking how today he kept talking to inanimate objects. But was this really the last time? He told himself it would be, but he had already started. Would it really hurt if he took advantage of it? After all, he was by himself. He can't hurt anyone. Before he could rationalise it further, he picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a big sip. Just one. Last one. Just to remember the taste. Looked at the bottle. "No, actually this is the last one!" And took another.

He took the glass out of the sink. Opened the freezer. Three more ice cubes.

The voice inside his head disappeared. Floating between thoughts but not being able to stick to any. He didn't want to; he knew that would just make him dizzy. Especially with his tolerance now gone.

He started pouring.

"But you said just one glass," he told himself before he downed the glass he just filled up for himself. He looked at the bottle. Half empty. Just a little bit more. He’d stop right under half. Then he took two big sips from the bottle.

Suddenly the music stopped. Tom took the phone out of his pocket, trying to play something again. The screen was loading.

He looked towards the living room. Orange light flickered across the wall. A deep, manly voice. The loud clink of ice. He started walking towards it, phone in hand, confused. The same glass. The same bottle. The same ad.

Tom stared at the TV mounted on the wall. He felt mocked. Felt hot. Very hot. His arms started to feel restless. The ad continued, insensitively. Then the people with sunglasses, laughing. Not with him. At him.

Before he could stop himself, he threw his phone at the TV, screaming. A grey circle spread where it hit, the colours breaking into blue and green. The ad continued on three of the corners of the screen. From the soundbar he heard: "Why miss it? Live it."

Tom grabbed the soundbar and, using it as a bat, started smashing the screen, first hitting the corners. The only noise left was his breathing and grunting and the sharp cracks of glass. Then the shards falling onto the floor with an ethereal sound. When that wasn’t enough, he jumped, clung to the TV, shaking, feet in the air, trying to pull it down. With one last heave, it came loose. He dropped it as hard as he could, feeling his shoulder slip. He screamed. It only made him angrier. Darkness. Only the kitchen light remained. Then he took the soundbar and tried to snap it across his knee, as if it were a stick. It didn't break. His knee started hurting.

That was when he noticed the phone on the floor. Still intact. He raised the soundbar, and, holding it upright, brought it down again and again and again, in a mechanical rhythm, crushing it like a garlic clove.

Calmer now, Tom looked around to check the damage. His TV, his phone, his soundbar, lying at his feet. Destroyed. He felt something warm on his left hand. His blood looked black under the dim light coming from the kitchen.

He fell to his knees and caught his reflection in a big shard on the floor.

"Do I know you?" he asked himself, the words coming out weaker than he expected.

Feeling pathetic, he tried again, forcing himself to be loud, intimidating:

"Do I know you?" His voice was shaky and breaking.

Tom stood up and went to the kitchen, into the light. He looked at the bottle.

It was empty.