Upset.
#3 of Short Stories
A story of a drunk dragon.
He didn't know what was making him so upset. Upset all the time. He hoped he could change. Everything would change.
What was the meaning of living? Why should he live? All that was keeping him alive was his instinct to live. And he hated it. If not for it, he would've dropped dead a long time ago.
He couldn't depend on his family. He couldn't tell them what he wanted to. He was the first of three clutchmates, and his family expected highly on him. He couldn't let them down.
...And that led him to this ditch.
Why did he have to do what he did? Yes, he liked it, being related to English that he loved, but he knew he was getting burnt out. Always being tired, always being done with all the stuff he had to keep up with. Yes, the professors liked him and praised him for his skills, as he was unusually 'talented' in their words, but that didn't mean anything to him.
He wanted rest.
During his short lifespan of 20 years, he's been running all the way. Looking forward, hoping everything would go well for him, and yes, he did have to say that it went well for him. But that didn't mean that he was mentally tired. He was from an Asian family, which meant he had higher pressure than others. He doubted it would've been different even if he was from a western family, given his personality. But that didn't mean that he didn't need rest.
All his life, he was always struggling to do better than others. Pouring more and more hours into studying, working, etc to get in a higher position than others were. From his 13th year on earth, until he was 15 years old, he was bullied. Others envied him for his success and skills, and they bullied him for no reason. That only made him run harder, faster in his life. Not looking back. Not stopping to look around him and appreciate the surroundings. And now, he was definitely on a higher position than his friends were, and almost everyone respected him. He had an English Education major going just well for him, and no one in his class doubted him of his skills. His friends, who were doubtful at first, now respected him as well.
When he had finally stopped and looked around him, it was well past what he could want.
He only had a few friends, who he knew was not going to last for long, as they now all had their own ways to go. Others were trying to be friends with him, but not because they liked 'him', but because they wanted to get some advice and help on their lives. He didn't have any real friends anymore. His only friends had their own ways, and they probably would be lost in a few years.
Why was he living, he did not know. What was his life goal, he did not know. He never thought of it before. All he did was run. Try to get ahead of everyone. And it worked. But now he was standing alone, in a barren desert, with no one to accompany him. Not even his family.
His family was proud of him. Proud of his success and his independence he got early on. But truth be told, he was tired of independence, with no one to talk with. Still, his family had no idea, and thought he didn't need help anymore. All they knew was that he had a problem with his anger issues, to which they just brought him to a clinic and got him pills. They didn't know what was really going down. That he was actually tired of it all.
So he turned to alcohol. Cigarettes. Drugs.
His only friend was those. He couldn't tell his family and friends of what was happening, and in those small amounts he would tell them, they would just get angry and say that they were disappointed in him. And that made him turn to alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs even more.
He had a prescription, so it wasn't wrong having drugs. But no one knew that he had more than he actually had to. Not even his family. He was over the age he could get cigarettes and alcohol, so that wasn't a problem as well. And that all helped him get addicted to it.
All he had left now in his life was alcohol and cigarettes and drugs. That was all he had. No one to talk to, no one to tell what he had in mind. He grabbed the bottle and drank another shot. He didn't need a glass. No more. He had his alcohol, his cigarettes, and his drugs. Nothing could bother him no more.
He drank and drank. Eventually the third bottle was drowned. He looked at the empty third bottle in dismay and threw in on the floor. The bottle shattered into small pieces. Swearing, he went to the kitchen and fetched another bottle.
'...until I drop dead.' He growled, and opened the bottle, and started to drink agaadiin.
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Sorry I'm drunk now,
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