Hey Shae, There Was an Angel That Showed Me Alcohol

A minute ago, as I was building sandcastles with my best friend, Shae, there was an angel that appeared before me. The angel said, “I will show you your future.”

“Whaaaa—”

Where is this? I don’t know. Wait, wait, who’s that?

“That’s you,” the angel says.

“That’s me? What do you mean?”

“I have fast-forwarded time, and this is the glimpse of where you will be in 40 years.”

“What does glimpse mean?” I ask the angel.

“My gosh,” the angel sighs. “Okay, okay, little kid, forget about glimpse. Just think of this as a video that shows you who you will become.”

“Who I will become?”

“Yes, that person you’re seeing is you 40 years from now.”

“Oh, he has the same hair color as me! But wait, why are there so many bottles? One, two, three, four, uh, eight, nine, uh, sixteen, seventeen, uh, twenty-five, twenty-six?” I say with my fingers pointed at the bottles.

“Those are glass bottles.”

“Glass bottles? Why is he collecting glass bottles?”

“He’s not collecting it; he is drinking from it.”

“Why is he drinking that much water?”

“You see, little kid, those aren’t water,” the angel explains with slight hesitation. “Those are… alcohol.”

“What’s an alcohol?”

“It’s a drink that makes him happy.”

“Is it different from water?”

“Yes, it’s different from water.”

“But if drinking alcohol makes him happy, why does he look sad?”

The angel looks at me briefly, then looks away.

“Hey, you haven’t answered my question,” I say after some moments of silence.

“I want to show you something.”

“What do you want to sho—”

He’s crying—it’s not loud, but I can see his tears. He wipes his tears with his left forearm, and he keeps on wiping, and drinking, and wiping, and drinking, and wiping, and drinking, and wiping.

“Hey, if alcohol makes him happy, why is he crying?”

“Little kid, I think I’ve given the wrong explanation. He drinks alcohol not to feel happy, but to run away from his sadness.”

“Wait, that means, I’ll be that sad!”

“Yes.”

“Why is he sad?”

“Because he has many problems.”

“What does problem mean?”

“Uh, problem is, uh, problem.”

“Problem is problem?”

“Problem is, uh—you know—bad things.”

“So I will have bad things, which will make me sad, and I will drink alcohol to not be sad?”

“Yes, yes; you’re such a bright kid.”

“But what abou—hey look, look, he’s going to bed!” I exclaim as I point my finger.

Instead of using his forearm to wipe his tears, he now uses his pillow. Three glass bottles nearby, he drinks from it every few sobs and pillow-screams. Why does he cry so much? Are the bad things that bad?

“Will I be that sad?” I ask.

“Yes, you will be that sad.”

“But I’m happy; why will I be sad?”

“Because you will have many problems.”

“And I will drink alcohol to not be sad?”

“Yes; not now, but yes.”

“Why do you show this to me?”

“You are such an inquisitive—and bright—little kid. I’ve done what I’m told to do, and it’s best if I send you back to where you were.”

“Hey! Answer my quest—”

What, uh, sandcastles? Oh, that’s Shae. But hey, the angel hasn’t answered my question!