My Empire of Empties

I was back in my apartment standing in that tiny, reeking room, staring at the wreck I’d left six months ago. Empty bottles carpeted the floor, their last drops dried into sticky rings. A pizza box lay half-crushed under the coffee table, grease bleeding into the carpet. The sink overflowed with dishes; counters were buried in cigarette butts and ash. My mattress was stained with piss in shapes like continents on a map. In the corner, a pair of shit-bloated sweatpants sat under a cloud of gnats.

It was the kind of scene that would make a crime scene tech gag. Sweat and grime clung to my skin; stale booze hung in the air like a curtain. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, making me squint, and for a moment I thought, I can’t keep living like this.

Then I laughed, bitter and hollow, shrugged, and reached for the bottle. Empty. Bone dry.

I shook it, tilted it, held it to the light … maybe, maybe … but there was barely a drop.

You knew this was coming, Mick. I hadn’t worked in months, living off savings, then pawning whatever I could. The numbers in my bank account bled away, but drunk time loses shape. I remembered my last fifth … steadying myself just by holding it … and the ridiculous schemes I’d cooked up to get more. Usually it was begging a friend or relative for cash. In my head they always said yes.

I was still buzzed, but the only reason I was thinking about the future was because that buzz was slipping. If I wanted to get anything done in the next few hours, I’d need something … anything … to drink. Better move before the panic sets in.

I let the bottle drop and scanned the room. A hundred, maybe two hundred empties … shooters, half-pints, pints, fifths. All with one thing in common: a drop or two left. I’d thought about doing this before, but never needed to. Now? Fuck it. At least it gave me something to do while I figured out how to get my next bottle. I was getting one … no question. No way in hell I was going to the hospital tonight, or whatever the hell time it was.

I pushed myself to one knee, palm sinking into the carpet, the other hand braced on my hip. The room tilted, my head swimming, but I steadied myself. I’d been lying there for hours … just me, the glow of YouTube, and the stench of stale booze. Now, finally, I had a mission.

I stared at the veins on the back of my hand, pretending I was gathering strength. The world could wait. It always had. What did it matter if this moment felt pathetic? I wasn’t about to spiral into regret … not when salvation was so close.

I smiled, lazy and self-satisfied. Another shot would set things right. Another shot was the answer. The thought alone gave me a flicker of pride, as if my devotion to poison made me more human than the rest of them. Sobriety? No thanks. Who’d want to live in such raw, unfiltered misery?

You wouldn’t get it. You never would. You stupid bastards.

I pressed into the floor and forced myself upright. For a moment I swayed, almost toppling, but my feet found the ground … solid enough. A minor victory, but it would do. First the shot, then whatever came after. One thing at a time.

I paced the room in my underwear, bare feet sticking to spots on the linoleum I didn’t dare identify. Every few steps I bent, grabbed a bottle, and dropped it into a sagging garbage bag. Glass clinked like an accusation I refused to hear. Bedroom, kitchen, living room, bathroom … where bottles stood in the tub like sad little soldiers waiting for orders.

They were everywhere … on counters, under the couch, crammed in cupboards like secrets only I knew about. My domain. My empire of empties. I kicked through pizza boxes and crushed soda cans, sending roaches fleeing, and uncovered even more. It was almost impressive, the way a condemned building is impressive … rotting, but with its own twisted grandeur.

The bag sagged under the weight, seams ready to burst, but I kept going. The fridge … I’d almost forgotten. When I yanked the door open, bottles spilled out, clattering across the floor, a few shattering. I cursed and scooped up the shards, glass biting into my palms.

Then I saw it … a crumpled ten wedged between the counter and a drawer with no face. I plucked it out like buried treasure, grinning like an idiot. At least I wouldn’t have to steal a bottle tonight. I hadn’t crossed that line. Not yet.

I straightened, surveying the carnage … the overstuffed garbage bag, the bottles still scattered in drifts I couldn’t carry. The mission wasn’t done.

That ten-dollar bill might as well have been a hundred. One more night’s bottle meant forever … no worries, not tonight.

First, the empties. One by one, I twisted caps and coaxed the dregs into a Power Rangers shot glass I’d kept from the days I still drank from glasses. The Yellow Ranger filled slow, drop by drop. Pathetic, maybe. But it felt like progress.

When the Yellow Ranger finally brimmed, I held it up like a trophy. Three kinds of whiskey cut with God-knows-what, the oldest from some forgotten bender. It reeked. I threw it back anyway, the taste like whiskey poured through a urinal.

The burn clung, acrid and mean, like swallowing acid. I wiped my mouth and muttered, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Even I didn’t believe it.

The lie tasted worse than the drink.

BIO: D.W. Chesrown writes raw, unflinching fiction about addiction, recovery, and the tragedy of self-destruction. His stories cut close to the bone, pulling from lived experience in detox, halfway houses, and the long aftermath of bad decisions. He writes with grit, dark humor, and a clear eye on the absurd. Penny is his first published story. Find more at www.dwchesrown.com or on X and Instagram at @dwchesrown