Whipped Cream Flavored
The sun has since set, the stars have come out to look down, and the darkness of the sky
swallows me. I can see the moon shining outside my kitchen window, bathing the world in blue.
I’m sitting at the table, picking and ripping my skin off my fingers. They’re bleeding. I look at
the fruit bowl, inside it sits a single rotten gala apple. The red and yellow blended skin has faded
to grey and brown, and spots of black cover it. The bruises have turned into caverns, and I can
see the structure of the compromised apple, sunken in. Fruit flies scatter around it, and their
buzzing fades in and out of my ears as they fly around. I smash one onto the table. I wipe off its
guts on my ripped and stained painter’s jeans.
The bottle of vodka stands tall, unopened in front of me. Smirnoff, whipped cream flavor.
I have a crystal glass in my hand, the ice in it has long since melted; it’s just a pool of sadness in
a cup I haven’t used for years. I’ve been here for hours, sitting in silence. The world feels so loud
around me. Four years sober, gone. I drank on my vacation, and the slope back down was steeper
than I thought. I feel ashamed, lost. I’m walking down a path I might not be able to come back
from, but I cannot stop. I cannot stop. The bottle of vodka smiles at me, and I can feel its pull. It
always knew that I’d come back. Everything in me is saying no. But all I feel is yes.
My hand is trembling, but still, I reach for the bottle. I twist off the cap, drink the water
from my cup, and pour the vodka in the now vacant space. The gurgle of the bottle as god’s
nectar pours out is so satisfying. The air rushing into it and bubbles within remind me of a faint
scream, the kind you do as a kid in the pool underwater. The one that you can be loud and wild
in, but that doesn’t escape the surface of the water. I too feel like I can’t escape. I’m running and
running from a version of myself that is desperate to exist.
I bring the glass to my lips and drink, deeply. The liquor burns but is warm as it slides
down my throat. That warmth reaches my belly and permeates. I feel a calm that I cannot
explain, like the weight within me has melted and my shoulders can finally sag. But then a pang.
And it thickens. Guilt. I don’t want them to know that I’m drinking again and have been for
weeks. I don’t want them to know how bad it’s gotten. That I drink a bottle a night. I’m spending
more money than I have. I just need to talk with someone. Anyone. Soon.
I don’t want to be like this. But I pour another anyway.
By: Dean Wilson
Dean Wilson is a junior at the University of Nebraska Omaha, where he is pursuing a dual degree with triple majors in Creative Writing, English, and Environmental Science. He is a Chancellor’s List recipient and a graduate of Leadership Sarpy. Dean previously served as a board member for the mental health nonprofit Nebraska Family Support Network. He is passionate about speaking the truth despite stigma and about being open regarding his trauma and mental health struggles. He hopes his work will inspire others to share their experiences and remain resilient through their trials and tribulations.