Abby isn't mine. ER isn't mine.
She took the first sip. Or gulp. Whichever it was, it took two swallows. She began it as though it were water or milk. Then she stopped. If it were water, if it were milk, she would have drained the quarter of a glass. If it were water or if it were milk, she would have poured more than a quarter of a glass. As it was, she estimated that about five shots had been poured. Maybe four, maybe six.
As her mouth came away from the glass, she grimaced for a moment, slightly. The taste wasn't something to be relished. The bottle had been labeled in Spanish, but from the taste, it was scotch. Probably. She wasn't so good at guessing drinks. It was a faint yellow amber, and had that slightly smoky taste though, so she guessed it was scotch.
She swallowed again to get rid of the taste. She shook her head, then she shuddered, shivered. Then she paused to think for a moment. Why was she doing this? To prove her friends right? That she was an alcoholic? No, she could go for weeks without a drink, and she still didn't like the taste. There was no physical dependence. Why not have a drink. It must be how royally fucked up things are in school right now. That could be it. Or how royally fucked up things are at home. She picked up the glass once more. Three swallows this time, she promised herself as she held it to her lips to drink.
She managed four instead. Then she suppressed a gag reflex. Looking at the glass, there was one swallow left. Once this wave of shudders subsided, she knocked it back like the shot that it was.
Upon further inspection, it was more like a shot and a half or maybe two. Either way, it was doable in one swallow. God how she hated the taste.
She had goosebumps, and a taste like kerosene lingered in her mouth. Pleasant, very pleasant. Not.
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