|wish we had| another place. |Skylar|

The sharp twang of the alarm clock jolts me from my sleep. The sound of the alarm clock itself is not annoying; rather, it's the fact of what it does that annoys me. Before I even open my eyes to the day, I automatically know that it is not going to be a good day. The room is not lit with its usual light; a glance outside confirms that it is in fact a dreary, solemn day. The sun seems to be taking a day off as the clouds take over its shift, casting the District in a light sheet of monotone color. Rain has not yet appeared, but judging by the clouds, it is soon to come. I turn off my alarm, and wonder why I set it in the first place. It's the weekend, and I have nowhere important to be today. Shrugging, I turn a circle in my room, soaking up its emptiness. It's full of books and everything of the sort, but it lacks spirit. Perhaps a bit of color could spice things up a bit.

I quickly dress into some clothes, and throw my pajamas onto the bed. I close the door behind me to rid my mind of any need to tidy my room. A trip down the hallway and through the last door on the left brings me to my living room. I hadn't even bothered to check if Mother was home; I already knew the answer to that. She's gone every night now, or so it seems to be that way. I've never had the nerve to follow her. I don't want to see what she gets herself deeper into every day.

I thrust open the blinds on the windows to attempt to let some light in and illuminate the house. Taking into account the grime that coats the glass though, not much light is going to come in. I circle the room like I did in my bedroom, and spot nothing appeasing to my boredom besides a fairly large stack of book that I've already read. Multiple times. But still, it's better than sitting around the house, staring at the wall like someone whose head isn't screwed on right.

Pulling a random book from the stack, I find that it's one of the more favorable of the stack. I settle down on the couch and curl up in the corner. I read the book for a few chapters, already picking out different literary concepts and the like. This I enjoy, but something's not quite right. I'm missing something major. And then I realize it's that I have no booze next to me. Placing the book down on the couch and being sure not to lose the page, I amble myself into the kitchen. The cupboards are thrust open as I begin my search for a drink. Cupboards and drawers are torn open, everything inside them thrown around the kitchen by the time I'm done. And still, nothing. No, I can find a whisk in a drawer, which I can guarantee has only been used maybe three times max, but I can't discover a single drop of alcohol.

Sighing, I think of a couple of different places to go. I could go to the neighbors's house; they're always more than happy to give me something to drink. I could head over to that little shack down the street, whose alcohol I prefer a lot more than other places. Or I could head to the bar down the road a bit, where I know I could strike up a conversation with someone. You always meet interesting characters at the bar; yes, they're always wasted and sometimes lit, but at least you get a modest conversation with them. It's the social interaction that counts.

I decide on heading over to the latter of the three. I somehow feel this is a good decision, although I don't know why. Perhaps it's the anticipation of getting out of the house. Or maybe it's the knowledge that I'll soon have a drink in my hand. I grab a few coins from my mom's stash, she'll never know the difference, and then I head out down the street. I pass the usual alignment of houses and scenery. Every house has a tree right in the middle of their yard. Some houses are more fortunate than others with this addition; for some houses, the tree's shade completely blocks all light for that side of the house. For others, it provides nothing but a positive, clean-kept yard.

I'm soon staring at the entrance to the bar. It's pretty small, a shack really. A think layer of grime covers the outside, and it reminds me of my windows at home. A dim light can be seen burning through the window in the door, but there are no other signs of life inside. I've been here before many a time; why the sudden hesitation? Stop being paranoid about nothing, Elixir. Sighing and shaking my head, I open the door and step inside. The inside looks identical to the outside. dirty, dark, and grimy. Maybe if they cleaned up a little, they would get more customers.

I sit down at the bar, and glance behind me at the tables. Some are occupied already with people playing cards, talking, or something along those lines. All have alcohol in their hands, or next to them on the table. Only a few older men sit next to me across the way, and they same to be engrossed in an interesting conversation, judging by their wild bodily motions and facial expressions. I'm startled from my observing state with a sharp tapping on the bar.

"Sir! Hello? What can I get for you?"

Looking up at him, I suddenly realize I don't know what I want to drink. I usually know what I'm in the mood for by the time I arrive here, but today I haven't a clue. I guess I could go for some vodka. But no, I drink that regularly. It's becoming old to me. I must lay off of it for a while, before I lose my attraction to it.

"Could I get some scotch, please?"

I normally do not get this drink, it's a bit more on the expensive side, but I haven't had any in a long while, and so I decide to treat myself a bit. The bartender looks at me strangely. He seems to be sizing me up. Normally I wouldn't mind a guy checking me out, but this is just a bit on the awkward side.

"How old are you?"

Wow. I haven't been asked that question in a while. Most people don't think much of a fifteen-year-old drinking or smoking, so they hand over the booze and the blunt with no qualms. The guy is piercing through me with his eyes, waiting for me to slip up.

"Eighteen, sir."

The bartender seems to deem this as an appropriate answer, and turns around to pour me a glass of scotch. He slams it down on the table in front of me, and a couple of drops slosh out. He turns around once more to clean the table behind, leaving me alone to my thoughts. The golden-colored liquid stands in front of me quietly, patiently waiting for me to succumb to its inviting taste. I grasp the glass in my hands and take a small sip, testing its potency. Satisfied with the taste and strength, I take a larger drink. I see myself here for the rest of the day, and possibly the evening, so I settle into my seat and prepare myself for an alcohol-filled evening.