Hi, my name is Bradley, and I'm an alcoholic. It took me a long time to admit it, because I couldn't see that I was heading for a cliff. Alcohol blunts my ability to think clearly, so I didn't even realize that I had a problem until it was too late. I foolishly believed that an occasional beer with dinner would not be enough to form a crippling addiction. I naively assumed that a weekend brewski with the boys was just something that people did. Normal. Typical. Sure, I had some bad nights back in the day, but that's just part of growing up. The adults always warn you, but some lessons just need to be learned the hard way:

8 pm: It's just a few beers with some friends

10 pm: It's just a few shots with some friends

11:30 pm: I can just count my drinks, and alternate with water like the surgeon general recommends.

12:30 am: And even if I lose count, I can tell when I've had too much.

2:15 am: And even if I have too much, my caring roommates will surely guide me back home safely.

2:17 am: But it won't ever get to that point, because

I Am Capable Of Making Rational Decisions On My Own

Then you wake up the next day, wipe the wood chips and chunks of vomit out of your clothes, and thank God there were no children on that playground. You reflect on your situation, contemplate the folly of man, and proceed to never make the same mistake again.

Of course, everybody learns at a different pace, so it took me a few "bad nights" for the lesson to sink in. But I think I've hit a good balance of having a few good stories, without having too many good stories.

Like one time, I threw up on my laptop. I can't actually remember doing this, but when I woke up the next morning I could not deny that it had happened. My roommate told me that I had staggered out of the party on my own, made it all the way across campus to order a tuna fish sandwich (which I'm allergic to) from a convenience store, and then, miraculously, made it back to my room. He distinctly remembered tucking me in for the night. This means that, at some point that night I must have woken up, walked all the way across the room, thrown up on my laptop, and then gone back to sleep without cleaning it up. I had to get the thing replaced.

Another time, I locked myself out of my dorm room. It wasn't one of those old-school locks that used a physical key; it was a fancy electronic lock that would open when I scanned my student ID card. Unfortunately, I had been drinking heavily that night, and the subtle intricacies of scanning a card were far beyond me. I knew something had to be scanned, I just didn't know what. So when I left my room to use the bathroom, I brought my phone, a calculator, and a can of soda. I was absolutely sure that one of these three objects would open the door. After a few minutes of lining the barcode on the soda up to the scanner, I was devastated to learn that they would not. One of my neighbors found me nodding off in the hallway, and graciously allowed me to crash on his sofa. The next morning, I discovered what had inspired me to go to the bathroom: my bedsheets were covered in yak.

Addiction is defined as a compulsive behavior that continues despite negative consequences. Never mind that I stopped drinking heavily after I graduated. Never mind that I hadn't had a drink in the last fucking month.

I must be addicted. A slave to the substance.

That's the only way I could rationalize the strange fucking situation I was in.

For starters, gravity was pointing the wrong way. There were shackles on my neck, wrists, and ankles, and a big harness on my chest held me to the wall. Fortunately, someone had left a key on the ceiling near my head. Though my wrists had shackles, they weren't bound to anything, so I reached out and grabbed the key. It didn't fit my wrist shackles, but it did fit the chest harness. Something clicked, and I slid off the wall and onto the ceiling.

I staggered to my feet and realized in a moment of clarity that the ceiling was actually the floor. The harness must have restricted my breathing, because as soon as it came off I felt great. Suspiciously great.

I should be hung over right now.

Speaking of hanging, how long was I upside-down for?

Must not have been long, because I didn't even feel a head rush when I stood up.

I tried to remember the previous night, but couldn't. So drinking was definitely involved. Was it my old friend Pabst? My other friend Schapps? A menage-a-trois perhaps?

I should be hung over right now.

I looked around, utterly bamboozled by my surroundings. I was in a small torchlit cave, about the size of my bedroom. On the opposite side of the cave there was a rough block of stone that looked like some idiot's first attempt at an altar. On the cave wall behind the altar, something pulsed. I crossed the room and looked closer: It was a human heart, beating away cheerfully like it was still connected to something.

I've got some bad news for you buddy.

Looking closer, the heart was surrounded by a spiderweb of veins that led into the rock.

Now that's what I call a vein of ore

I hyuk'ed compulsively and slapped my knee. The wall near the heart was moist, and stained red. I sniffed.

Blood. I guess that makes sense.

I took a closer look at my shackles. The ones on my wrists, ankles, and neck were simple bands of dark purple metal with keyholes. Fortunately they were fairly lightweight; moving around in them didn't feel burdensome. I tried using my key in the ankle shackles, but didn't have any luck.

Then, reluctantly, I looked at the other shackle. The one I'd been trying desperately not to notice. The one clamped around my waist, extending between my legs. The chastity belt. That one.

I found the keyhole, and watched my hands move in fumbling horror as they failed to open it with the key.

I'm stuck

The heart on the wall beat faster.

Fuck.

FUCK

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

This can't be real.

I double checked. It was real.

This can't be happening.

I double checked. It was happening.

I turned back to the wall that I'd been hanging from. The chest harness was still there, bolted to the rocks. There were also some bars that must have held my legs in place.

Good thing they weren't bolted to the wall, because hanging sit-ups aren't part of my usual workouts. I stick to the classic compound lifts, like bench press, back squat, and overhead press, which actually work your abs anyway. Many bodybuilders don't even bother with exercises that specifically target the abdominal muscles. Body-weight calisthenic movements like hanging sit-ups mostly appeal to people who want to work out at home and avoid the gym: wiry soy boys who have never seen a vagina. Basically, I don't do sit-ups because I'm ALPHA AS FUCK.

I took another look at the heart because god damn, you don't see that every day. Its beating had calmed back down.

Come to think of it, I'm calm right now. The serial killer who lives here could come back at any moment, yet here I am, feeling like I just woke up from a nap.

Maybe I'm half serial killer, because the place felt oddly like home.

A small tunnel flanked by torches led out of the room, into darkness. I picked up a torch, took a final, searching look back, and walked out.