I always thought I knew what cologne smelled like. It was harsh and made my eyes water and nose burn. All I knew is that my dad wore it religiously. I always thought my dad wore cologne. I was ten years old when I learned what whiskey smelt like.
I was sixteen years old when I took my first sip of whiskey. It was weak, mixed with diet coke, but it still left my throat burning. I never liked the taste, but when I brought the cup to my nose and smelt the bitterness and I saw the eyes of my father, I knew that the smell was so much worse. It was that moment when I understood why people drank to forget.
That night I closed my eyes and I saw the black label of Jack Daniels Whiskey, I saw the long brown paper bags that my dad hid in the cupboards, I saw the coke cans littered around our trash can.
I was too young to understand, but with whiskey running through my own veins I connected each individual dot like each sign a constellation.
I set the cup down and winced. My friends laughed, of course. They didn’t know. They’d never even guess. They probably thought I was a lightweight, a girl who couldn’t even handle a sip of whiskey. I smiled, too.