The apartment was in shambles, with mess and clutter strewn carelessly across the floor. Dirty clothes, empty bottles, and other various items that Caylee had been swearing week after week to clean up. But lately, there didn’t seem to be a day when she was sober enough to stand. Let alone clean house.

She sat slumped on the couch, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in her hand. The room smelt of stale Bacardi and yesterday‘s pizza— mixed with the lingering scent of Ian‘s cologne. A torturing reminder of her mistakes.

Ian had just left. His words still echoed in the silence. “I can’t do this anymore, Caylee. You need help. I’m done.” The door had slammed shut behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the ever-present company of her vices.

As the whiskey burned its way down her throat, she closed her Blue, mascara streaked eyes. She leaned back, savoring the taste on her tongue, and wished for oblivion, for the nothingness that the next drink promised. She took another swig, then another, until the bottle felt lighter in her hand. She let it hang loosely by her side, her eyes unfocused and adorned with dark circles.

“Look at you.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. The room swam in front of her. “Wh-what?”

“You’re pathetic,” the voice said again, and this time, she realized it was coming from the bottle. She blinked in shock and stared down at it, her heart racing in her chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, bringing the bottle closer to stare at it open mouthed. But it wasn’t her imagination. The voice was coming from the bottle. And it’s tone was sharp and mocking.

“That’s why Ian left you,” it continued, each word laced with malice. “He got sick of your bullshit. Sick of your lies. Sick of me.”

Caylee’s grip tightened around the neck of the bottle. “You’re not real. This isn’t happening. I’m just… I’m just too drunk,’’ she slurred.

“Oh, I’m very real,” the bottle hissed. “I’ve been with you longer than Ian. Longer than anyone. I’m your only friend now.”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, that’s not true.”

“Who else do you have?” the bottle sneered. “Who else is here for you at three in the morning? Who else listens to your sob stories, your cries for help? No one. Just me.”

She wanted to throw it across the room, to shatter it into a million pieces, but she couldn’t let go. The bottle seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a dark, malevolent presence that had wormed its way into her soul.

“I’ve ruined your life,” it said, almost gleefully. “Your job, your relationships, your health. I’ve taken everything from you, and you let me. You welcomed me with open arms.”

Caylee’s eyes filled with tears. She knew it was right. She had given in, time and time again. She had chosen the bottle over Ian, over her friends, over everything. She bowed her head as a tear slid down her cheek.

“But you need me,” the bottle mused. “You can’t live without me. And you know it.”

“I can,” she nearly pleaded, her voice trembling. “I can.”

The bottle laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “You’ll come back. You always do. You’re weak, Caylee. You always fall to pieces. And I’m always here, waiting.”

She wanted to scream, to run, to escape the dark voice that seemed to know her every fear, her every weakness. But she stayed frozen, the weight of the bottle holding her down. Smothering her. Crushing her.

In the quiet of the apartment, surrounded by the mess of her life, Caylee felt the suffocating truth of the bottle’s words. She was alone. Ian was gone. And all she had left was the dark, unrelenting presence of her addiction.

The only thing she knew to do was the only thing she had ever done. So she took another drink, and another. Until the bottle’s voice faded into the background.

—————

OK, so I realize this writing is pretty corny. But the prompt said to personify the disease. This is the only way I knew how to do that to make it seem half ass realistic.

Sidenote: The bottle is not really talking. She is way too drunk and this is supposed to be her conscience talking to her through the bottle.