Creative You grasped the rectangular glass bottle in your clammy palm, and raised it to your dry mouth, swallowing the last remnants of your guilty pleasure. You would have to cleanse your mouth later, using toothpaste and mouthwash in an attempt to conceal the intoxicating odour that infused your breath. You stared over the russet, rusted metal railing, absorbing the blackened chaos of the storm-tossed Atlantic Ocean. A sensation of rebellion and pleasure, both startling and exciting, surged through your lungs. You exhaled deeply, your warm breath tainted with alcohol, which tangoed and twisted, transfusing the salty Atlantic air. You firmly stoppered the empty bottle with a rubber cork, and safely sequested it in your cobalt, cotton pocket: it was to be dealt with later. Despite the negative stigma associated with drinking, it nevertheless attracted a subversive following, particularly among the rebellious youth. It was a group, to which you had of course, once belonged, but you grew old, and your membership expired, albeit leaving you with a legacy of addiction that you were unable to vanquish Of course, you were glamorizing the reality. You were simply a middle-aged adult who couldn’t kick a habit. However, as a Commander of an elite naval vessel, if caught excessively drinking, you would be expected to resign. Unfortunately, the repercussions wouldn’t just end there. Your partner and two sons were oblivious to your secret habit, your chronic alcohol addiction. You could easily imagine the shame and embarrassment etched into their faces. You were a sole income earner, so of course, your family would struggle financially. Perhaps a divorce, initiated by your partner? You would have to find extra work, a difficult task, given the current state of the economy. Would you end up selling the family home, unable to find employment? You were perhaps exaggerating the consequences, but once in a rant, you found it difficult to halt. Alcohol allowed your mind to unwind, it gave you reprieve from your day, your extensive duties, the accumulation of pressure. It allowed you to temporarily forget the fact that you had an addiction. You strode back to the naval bridge at twilight, your mind in an unnecessary, ferocious spin. The rebellious pleasure that had once soothed your mind was displaced by irritation. You marched across the flag deck, enduring the splattering sea mist that rubbed your uniform damp, icily pressing against your skin. Your fingers trailed along the cold railing, as you gazed upon the outline of the bridge and communications antenna silhouetted against the velvet sky. The beauty uplifted you for a second, as if god had taken you back to his workshop, and shown you something special. Manmade and natural elements intermingled and were for once, compatible. Such moments gave a refreshing sense of meaning to your life. This was why you had joined the Royal Australian Navy. Not for the lack of sleep, the pressure or expectations, but for that sense of sporadic sense of freedom You paused momentarily, allowing yourself reprieve: to collect yourself. You had to walk onto the naval bridge as a commander, not a drug-addicted, paranoid middle-aged adult. Your life was characterized by complications; you were one individual with multiple personas. You grasped the reddened naval railing with both hands, which were trembling slightly from the cold. The salty air hiking its way through your nostrils, the spew of saline water form the ocean, the wisps of hair that batted at your ear lobes, it was a refreshing distraction from all that berated your life. Suddenly, the moment cracked. You felt the cold, empty bottle, pressing against your abdomen, slip from your lower pocket, your hands reached out to catch it. You fumbled the empty bottle with both hands, attempting to secure it in the prison of your clumsy fingers. But it escaped, falling onto the deck, splintering. You paused momentarily; panic seeping through your mind, what if someone saw? And then came that rush of chaos: you quickly bent down, sweeping the fragmented glass into one hand. Standing up, you dropped the shattered glass over the railing, a sea of glass shards pelted against the ocean, piercing the murky depths. You breathed out and glanced at your hand, trickling with scarlet, and with several minor gashes. You hadn’t realized the jaggedness of the glass shards: the panic had concealed the pain. For a moment, you felt slightly nauseous, a surge of dizziness, a lack of balance, blood: seeping, oozing, and that awful metallic odour. But you dismissed the thought; you were a naval commander, not a haemophobic. Being an alcoholic was already too difficult. The bridge offered security, a safety blanket from the Atlantic squall. You were greeted by the wafts of coffee, warmth, and the respect that was always extended to a commander. It offered peace to your harrowed mind. You were no longer an alcoholic; desperation for redemption, but a valued, experienced leader of a naval war ship. Perception was everything. Your mouth had been cleaned of any trances of alcohol, your left hand cleaned and self-bandaged, your blonde pulled back into a tight bun. Your demeanor exuded n air of leadership. Nobody knew – not a single officer, or sailor on the ship. Nor your children, or your husband of 17 years. It was a secret between yourself…and..god?. You were an infallible liar.