Disclaimer: The Power Rangers Time Force, characters names, distinctive
likenesses, logos and all related indicia are copyrighted trademarks
belonging to Buena Vista Entertainment.
Author's note: The idea of Alex having alcohol problems got into my head from "What Friends Won't do" by Rachel Trench, used without her permission as she kindly noticed. Thanks to Sierra and Cmar for beta reading, and the later also for the idea of the title.
The Glass
By Shirley Chong.
It was right there, in front of him.
Round, short, tempting. The amber colored liquid inside of it sending its fumes up to his face, begging him to pick it up, to take it closer to his lips. But he just stared at it, two words going through his mind over and over. Five years.
He had been sober for five years. Five years of work, it had been hard at the beginning, and in the middle and in the end. It had never stopped being hard. But when he got his five years medal, he felt so proud and strong; he had looked at the crowd and had recognized four people smiling up to him, their faces filled with pride and admiration.
His father, who was a fighter himself. His mother, who hadn't hesitated to take him to the meetings when she found out about his problem, despite his protests. Jennifer, who had been by his side every day, who had asked him for the bottle back whenever he picked it up. Jennifer, who had understood the problem and had embraced it as part of him. And Clark, his protégé, who looked up to him with true admiration.
He looked down at the glass again, feeling defeated. His father was dead. Jennifer was gone. Clark had slipped, despite all of his efforts. Only his mother was left. But she was out of town, so perhaps he could have one drink, just one. She would never know, he wouldn't have to tell everyone at the meetings.
He picked up the glass and brought it closer to his face, smelling the content with delight. It had been so long, and yet there it was. Alcohol. His one true friend. The one faithful friend that waited for him to come back, the friend who forgave him and took him back without judging him. Alcohol was the one true friend who would never abandon him, who would never leave him.
He put the glass to his lips. So close. Just a bit more and he would be reunited with his friend, he would feel its warmth running down his throat and sinking in his stomach. After that one glass, he would get up and leave.
No, said a small voice in his head.
After that glass he would order another. And another. And then another, and so on until he couldn't see straight. Then another, and another and another until he couldn't talk straight, so he would order a bottle, so he could drink on his own, without having to ask the bartender for anything.
And he would reach that state of oblivion, that surreal, yet so pleasant state. It wasn't a surreal state, and it wasn't pleasant. It was very real, and he would make a fool of himself. He would start crying, or yelling, getting into fights with opponents only he could see. Then his stomach would rebel, he would start throwing up and then he would fall face first onto the floor and remain there, until someone picked him up and sent him home. If someone ever did; if not, he would wake up the next day stinky and with a hangover, only to go to work and be told off for being late, for being in that state.
He lowered the glass again. He just couldn't throw away five years of hard work he felt very proud of, for her. She wasn't worth it. She had abandoned him, she had forgotten about him. She had chosen a ghost over him. She was unfaithful and unthankful, unlike his friend, Jack Daniels.
He lowered his eyes to the glass again. He wasn't there for her. He was there because of himself. She had hurt him, she had left him, but it was he who was hurting. He was the one who still loved her, and alcohol was the only thing that could give him any kind of solace and comfort right now. Alcohol could make his pain go away. Maybe not forever, but for a little while. It had always been. Alcohol made the pressure go away, as well as the pain and the deception, and the defeat.
His fingers wrapped around the glass before his eyes, and he was surprised to feel he was comfortable with that. He no longer trembled, or let it fall like before. He didn't fear the glass anymore. The glass was no longer the enemy; it had always been his friend, on the contrary. He put both hands around the short glass protectively. He ran his thumbs over the border. It was dry. He could put it up to his lips and moisten his lips lightly, it wouldn't hurt him. And it would make the urge go away.
He picked the glass up again. He took a deep breath and could almost feel the bitter liquid pouring in his mouth, rejoicing him. He would have returned to the loving arms of alcohol, who had never abandoned him, who had never given up on him. He would drink that glass and then. and then.
He would be drunk. No, he would be A drunk, for the rest of his life, not only throwing down the drain five years of sobriety, but a lifetime of achievements. He had sworn he wouldn't be like his father, he promised to his mother he wouldn't be a drunk. But he had fallen, just like his father. And just like his father he had climbed out with lots of work.
And just like his father he was going back down. He might as well pull out his gun and shoot himself in his office. If he got drunk again, he could die. His liver. and not just that, he could crash the car. or.
He remembered the days spent in the hospital after Ransik attacked him. Those days, unable to move anything but his eyes, conscious, but completely unable to do anything but look at the ceiling and think. Think about her. Had he needed a drink back in that bed? So much. Oh God, so much, every day, every hour. He was thankful he had been unable to move or he would have drunk a whole bottle. Or two. Or three. Maybe four.
Meanwhile, she had been fooling around with him. He shook his head. The fumes from the glass going straight to his nose, inviting him. He put it back down, his hand starting to shake. He took several deep breaths, his eyes closed. He would reach for his wallet, pay for the drink and get out of that bar, as fast as he could. He would call his mother and tell her what had happened.
But instead, his hand, in a fluid motion picked the glass from the table and brought it to his lips, where a mouthful of the amber liquid was welcomed in. He spit it out immediately, and ran towards the bathroom, where he threw up.
He didn't throw up the alcohol, that hadn't made it past his mouth, he threw up his deception, his shame, his anger with himself, with his hand, that had betrayed him. After rinsing his mouth he walked out. Left a bill in the bar and made his way to the door.
He stepped out of the bar and felt he was being born again. Another battle won. He hadn't won completely, because he had taken a mouthful, but he hadn't let it go beyond his mouth. He had just gotten a taste, and had still walked out of the bar sober. Smiling, he walked to his car, welcoming the fresh air on his face. He was still sober. One more day had gone by, and he had reached its end sober.
He saw a figure by his car, on a motorcycle. The slim figure climbed out of the vehicle and ran to him. When she reached him, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked at his eyes.
"I'm still sober," he whispered.
"What were you doing in that bar?" she asked.
"Proofing my will," he said, taking her hands off his shoulders and walking towards his car. "Tempting fate?" he said then questioningly, looking at her over his shoulders.
"Your mother has been trying to reach you all night," she said softly. "She was worried. And when I saw your car parked here, after what happened between us, I thought--"
"I'm not going to get drunk because of what you did to me," he said, opening the driver's side door, but not going in. "I love you very much, but you are not worth it," he told her going into his car.
He drove away, leaving her standing in that parking lot. He was driving home, but then, checking the hour, he decided to drive somewhere else, just for a quick stop. While he was driving, he dialed a number on his cell phone. After the second ring, it was picked up on the other end.
"Where are you?" said a concerned voice.
"In the car, just got out of a bar," he said. Then he told her the whole story, everything that had gone through his mind, how he felt. He heard her sniff several times.
"Son," she began. "I'm so proud." She began to cry.
"Hey, don't cry," he said. "I'm okay."
"You are not okay," she said across the line. "You are better than that."
"Thank you, Mom," he said truthfully. "Come back soon, okay? I really need you here."
"Day after tomorrow, it's a promise."
"Okay, I'll see you then, I love you, Mom," he said.
"I love you too, Alex, with all my heart," she said. He hung up and put his cell phone away as he drove into a parking lot.
After parking, he got out, happy with the familiar building, which now looked welcoming and cozy. He walked into the room and everybody looked at him. He smiled and waved hello to his friends. His friends from the meetings.
"Hello there," said the woman leading the team that night.
"Hello," Alex said, still smiling.
"Why are you smiling like that?"
"I went to a bar, ordered a drink, took a mouthful, spit it out, and managed to get out sober," he said simply, still smiling. "If you want my medal back..." he began.
"You are sober?" the woman asked.
"Yes, just got out of the bar, I can do a blood test if you want," he offered.
"No, here we believe in your word," the woman said. Then she turned towards a young man sitting next to her. "This is our newest member, Tony," she said, pointing. "You are the only one who hasn't been introduced."
He smiled, getting up from his seat, and offered his hand to the young man. "My name is Alexander."
"The red Time Force ranger?" the boy asked, amazed, after recognizing his face.
"Not in here. In here I'm not the red Time Force ranger," he corrected with a smile. "In here, just like everyone else, I'm an alcoholic."
The end.
Author's note: The idea of Alex having alcohol problems got into my head from "What Friends Won't do" by Rachel Trench, used without her permission as she kindly noticed. Thanks to Sierra and Cmar for beta reading, and the later also for the idea of the title.
The Glass
By Shirley Chong.
It was right there, in front of him.
Round, short, tempting. The amber colored liquid inside of it sending its fumes up to his face, begging him to pick it up, to take it closer to his lips. But he just stared at it, two words going through his mind over and over. Five years.
He had been sober for five years. Five years of work, it had been hard at the beginning, and in the middle and in the end. It had never stopped being hard. But when he got his five years medal, he felt so proud and strong; he had looked at the crowd and had recognized four people smiling up to him, their faces filled with pride and admiration.
His father, who was a fighter himself. His mother, who hadn't hesitated to take him to the meetings when she found out about his problem, despite his protests. Jennifer, who had been by his side every day, who had asked him for the bottle back whenever he picked it up. Jennifer, who had understood the problem and had embraced it as part of him. And Clark, his protégé, who looked up to him with true admiration.
He looked down at the glass again, feeling defeated. His father was dead. Jennifer was gone. Clark had slipped, despite all of his efforts. Only his mother was left. But she was out of town, so perhaps he could have one drink, just one. She would never know, he wouldn't have to tell everyone at the meetings.
He picked up the glass and brought it closer to his face, smelling the content with delight. It had been so long, and yet there it was. Alcohol. His one true friend. The one faithful friend that waited for him to come back, the friend who forgave him and took him back without judging him. Alcohol was the one true friend who would never abandon him, who would never leave him.
He put the glass to his lips. So close. Just a bit more and he would be reunited with his friend, he would feel its warmth running down his throat and sinking in his stomach. After that one glass, he would get up and leave.
No, said a small voice in his head.
After that glass he would order another. And another. And then another, and so on until he couldn't see straight. Then another, and another and another until he couldn't talk straight, so he would order a bottle, so he could drink on his own, without having to ask the bartender for anything.
And he would reach that state of oblivion, that surreal, yet so pleasant state. It wasn't a surreal state, and it wasn't pleasant. It was very real, and he would make a fool of himself. He would start crying, or yelling, getting into fights with opponents only he could see. Then his stomach would rebel, he would start throwing up and then he would fall face first onto the floor and remain there, until someone picked him up and sent him home. If someone ever did; if not, he would wake up the next day stinky and with a hangover, only to go to work and be told off for being late, for being in that state.
He lowered the glass again. He just couldn't throw away five years of hard work he felt very proud of, for her. She wasn't worth it. She had abandoned him, she had forgotten about him. She had chosen a ghost over him. She was unfaithful and unthankful, unlike his friend, Jack Daniels.
He lowered his eyes to the glass again. He wasn't there for her. He was there because of himself. She had hurt him, she had left him, but it was he who was hurting. He was the one who still loved her, and alcohol was the only thing that could give him any kind of solace and comfort right now. Alcohol could make his pain go away. Maybe not forever, but for a little while. It had always been. Alcohol made the pressure go away, as well as the pain and the deception, and the defeat.
His fingers wrapped around the glass before his eyes, and he was surprised to feel he was comfortable with that. He no longer trembled, or let it fall like before. He didn't fear the glass anymore. The glass was no longer the enemy; it had always been his friend, on the contrary. He put both hands around the short glass protectively. He ran his thumbs over the border. It was dry. He could put it up to his lips and moisten his lips lightly, it wouldn't hurt him. And it would make the urge go away.
He picked the glass up again. He took a deep breath and could almost feel the bitter liquid pouring in his mouth, rejoicing him. He would have returned to the loving arms of alcohol, who had never abandoned him, who had never given up on him. He would drink that glass and then. and then.
He would be drunk. No, he would be A drunk, for the rest of his life, not only throwing down the drain five years of sobriety, but a lifetime of achievements. He had sworn he wouldn't be like his father, he promised to his mother he wouldn't be a drunk. But he had fallen, just like his father. And just like his father he had climbed out with lots of work.
And just like his father he was going back down. He might as well pull out his gun and shoot himself in his office. If he got drunk again, he could die. His liver. and not just that, he could crash the car. or.
He remembered the days spent in the hospital after Ransik attacked him. Those days, unable to move anything but his eyes, conscious, but completely unable to do anything but look at the ceiling and think. Think about her. Had he needed a drink back in that bed? So much. Oh God, so much, every day, every hour. He was thankful he had been unable to move or he would have drunk a whole bottle. Or two. Or three. Maybe four.
Meanwhile, she had been fooling around with him. He shook his head. The fumes from the glass going straight to his nose, inviting him. He put it back down, his hand starting to shake. He took several deep breaths, his eyes closed. He would reach for his wallet, pay for the drink and get out of that bar, as fast as he could. He would call his mother and tell her what had happened.
But instead, his hand, in a fluid motion picked the glass from the table and brought it to his lips, where a mouthful of the amber liquid was welcomed in. He spit it out immediately, and ran towards the bathroom, where he threw up.
He didn't throw up the alcohol, that hadn't made it past his mouth, he threw up his deception, his shame, his anger with himself, with his hand, that had betrayed him. After rinsing his mouth he walked out. Left a bill in the bar and made his way to the door.
He stepped out of the bar and felt he was being born again. Another battle won. He hadn't won completely, because he had taken a mouthful, but he hadn't let it go beyond his mouth. He had just gotten a taste, and had still walked out of the bar sober. Smiling, he walked to his car, welcoming the fresh air on his face. He was still sober. One more day had gone by, and he had reached its end sober.
He saw a figure by his car, on a motorcycle. The slim figure climbed out of the vehicle and ran to him. When she reached him, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked at his eyes.
"I'm still sober," he whispered.
"What were you doing in that bar?" she asked.
"Proofing my will," he said, taking her hands off his shoulders and walking towards his car. "Tempting fate?" he said then questioningly, looking at her over his shoulders.
"Your mother has been trying to reach you all night," she said softly. "She was worried. And when I saw your car parked here, after what happened between us, I thought--"
"I'm not going to get drunk because of what you did to me," he said, opening the driver's side door, but not going in. "I love you very much, but you are not worth it," he told her going into his car.
He drove away, leaving her standing in that parking lot. He was driving home, but then, checking the hour, he decided to drive somewhere else, just for a quick stop. While he was driving, he dialed a number on his cell phone. After the second ring, it was picked up on the other end.
"Where are you?" said a concerned voice.
"In the car, just got out of a bar," he said. Then he told her the whole story, everything that had gone through his mind, how he felt. He heard her sniff several times.
"Son," she began. "I'm so proud." She began to cry.
"Hey, don't cry," he said. "I'm okay."
"You are not okay," she said across the line. "You are better than that."
"Thank you, Mom," he said truthfully. "Come back soon, okay? I really need you here."
"Day after tomorrow, it's a promise."
"Okay, I'll see you then, I love you, Mom," he said.
"I love you too, Alex, with all my heart," she said. He hung up and put his cell phone away as he drove into a parking lot.
After parking, he got out, happy with the familiar building, which now looked welcoming and cozy. He walked into the room and everybody looked at him. He smiled and waved hello to his friends. His friends from the meetings.
"Hello there," said the woman leading the team that night.
"Hello," Alex said, still smiling.
"Why are you smiling like that?"
"I went to a bar, ordered a drink, took a mouthful, spit it out, and managed to get out sober," he said simply, still smiling. "If you want my medal back..." he began.
"You are sober?" the woman asked.
"Yes, just got out of the bar, I can do a blood test if you want," he offered.
"No, here we believe in your word," the woman said. Then she turned towards a young man sitting next to her. "This is our newest member, Tony," she said, pointing. "You are the only one who hasn't been introduced."
He smiled, getting up from his seat, and offered his hand to the young man. "My name is Alexander."
"The red Time Force ranger?" the boy asked, amazed, after recognizing his face.
"Not in here. In here I'm not the red Time Force ranger," he corrected with a smile. "In here, just like everyone else, I'm an alcoholic."
The end.