JAIME GILL

Jaime Gill, winner of the 2025 Subnivean Awards, is a queer, British-born writer happily exiled in Cambodia, where he works and volunteers for nonprofits. He reads, writes, boxes, travels, and occasionally socialises. His stories have appeared in publications including Trampset, Blue Earth, Orca, New Flash Fiction Review, Litro, f(r)iction, and Exposition Review, won several awards including a Bridport prize, and been finalists for the Smokelong Grand Micro and Bath Short Story Awards. He’s Pushcart-nominated and writing a novel and too many short stories. More at www.jaimegill.com

THE DRINKING GAME

Welcome to Make-Your-Own-Misadventure—where YOU control the story! Although—in your new life as a chronic semi-functioning alcoholic—control is a slippery concept. Your mission is simple—make it out of this story, preferably alive. Or maybe that isn’t preferable! There are fates worse than death, you know.

To make it out of these pages, you’re going to need to make good decisions and have luck on your side, so grab a six-sided dice (no, don’t say “die” even if it’s technically correct, it sounds weird and we may need the word “die” later). No dice? Then use www.freeonlinedice.com to steer you through addiction’s maddening maze.

You probably want to know why you’re an alcoholic. It really makes no difference, but fine, grab your dice and find out. Ready! Set! Roll!

1 or 2: Born into an addiction-riddled family, you spent your childhood picking your way through the wreckage of your parents’ lives and vowed to be different from them—but your first drink provided pure relief after years of pressure. Alcohol became your best friend as you tried to build your own life with your own friends, but best friend slowly became worst enemy. MOVE-TO-#7.

3 or 4: You remember your early childhood as happy, until your parents divorced acrimoniously when you were eight and you spent the next years bouncing between them like a pinball, desperately trying to please both. By the time you were sixteen you were riddled with anxiety, and discovered alcohol could ease it. But servant became master, and now alcohol isn’t the solution to your problems, it’s their cause. MOVE-TO-#7.

5 or 6: Your childhood was ordinary, your parents were lovely, and you’ll never know why you are the one person in your group of friends who just can’t stop, why you go home after a night of drinking with friends and open another bottle of wine, why you can never, ever seem to have enough. MOVE-TO-#7.

7: Oh God no. Not again. You wake at 8.45am, soaked in alcohol-stinking sweat and battered by waves of anxiety and self-loathing. Last night was bad, but you can’t remember why. Where were you last? Who were you with? When did you get home? And fuck, you’re late for work—yet again. How does this keep happening?

Do you: go to work (MOVE-TO-#12) or risk calling in sick again (MOVE-TO-#18)?

8: Congratulations! You managed to leave the office without talking to colleagues and slunk to the hidden backstreet bar without being seen. The barman says hello, with a knowing look.

Do you: order beer for its more manageable alcohol content (MOVE-TO-#20) or choose vodka so colleagues don’t smell it on your breath (MOVE-TO-#38)?

9: Sean doesn’t answer. You wonder if something bad’s happened, he hasn’t been looking great the last few times you’ve seen him. His skin looked like wax. Anxiety prickles, sweat oozes down your forehead. You try to stay resolute but eventually cave and, just before midday, you slope to your local pub. Just one drink, just one. MOVE-TO-#13.

10: To your astonishment, you loved AA more than you loved drinking. At first it was just sheer gratitude at having escaping your doom loop life, and having new friends who understood how it had been. But slowly, the real joy became helping others. Over the years you sponsored several versions of your younger self, helping their shaking, shattered selves try to get sober. Most didn’t succeed, because that’s the hard reality, but some did. Some did. MOVE-TO-#33.

11: Sean answers, cheerfully drunk already. You arrange to meet in his favourite bar, which he loves because it opens early, and because he’s always drunk enough to ignore how dismal and depressing it is. You spend a few hours chatting about sweet fuck all, play some pool, lose some money on fruit machines, and force a disgusting burger down your throat. You try drinking slowly, but slowly the day blurs and before you know it, it’s late and Sean’s suggesting some party that he’s heard about. You’re too drunk to work out what you should do. Dice time! Throw even: go to party (MOVE-TO-#22). Throw odd: order taxi home (MOVE-TO-#7).

12: You’ve survived two excruciating hours at work, trying not to speak to your colleagues in case they smell last night’s alcohol on your breath. You were so anxious you could barely read your emails, but managed to look busy. Now it’s finally lunchtime.

Do you: go to a bar to try and blunt your agonising hangover so you can maybe do some actual work this afternoon (MOVE-TO-8) or order a sandwich and try to hang onto sobriety by your fingernails throughout the rest of the working day (MOVE-TO-#27)?

13: Scotty, The Crossroads’ garrulous landlord, turns the shitty music off, rings his bell and yells last orders. Wait, what? How can it be closing time? Where did all the hours go? How much have you actually drunk? Shit. You should be home. You promised you’d go home. But now Irish Colin’s inviting people back to his for a party and even though he hasn’t invited you, he hasn’t not invited you, and somehow you still don’t feel tired yet.

Do you: behave yourself and go home (MOVE-TO-#7) or tag along see what the party’s like, it’s not all that far away (MOVE-TO-#22)?

14: On your way to the meeting, terror grips you by the throat. You think of all the scenes of AA meetings you’ve seen on TV, miserable strangers sharing miserable life stories. They’ll expect you to talk. You can’t talk to strangers sober. You just can’t.

Do you: switch off your phone and head to the pub to kill this rapidly mutating anxiety (MOVE-TO-#13) or force yourself to go to the meeting even though it terrifies you (MOVE-TO-#34)?

15: Congratulations! You made it home! Though now you’re alone with nothing but your apocalyptic thoughts for company. You try thinking through your fucked-up life and how you ended up in this mess, but how can you think with this hangover still raking its fingernails through your brain? You need a drink to think. You need it.

Do you: go to your local pub (MOVE-TO-#13) or sensibly stick to the beer in your fridge (MOVE-TO-#30)?

16: AA turns out to be good for you. You get through your first week sober and almost cry when you wake up one morning and find that your hands aren’t trembling. You keep going to meetings, you make friends, you go bowling with them and you laugh more sincerely than you have in years. Things are going well, right up until the day your mother calls to say your brother has cancer. You should try to talk to an AA friend about it, but you feel too hopeless to talk. The world’s conspiring against you, and after days of crippling atom-level anxiety, you crack. You go to the pub, anything to make this pain go away: MOVE-TO-#13.

17: You slowly phased out of AA, going to less and less meetings until finally you were going to none. You’d given up alcohol so you could have a life again, and it seemed a waste of that new life to keep talking about it all the time. You got into extreme sports and met your wife in a rock-climbing club. Marriage was good for three years, bad for two. By the time she left, you hadn’t drunk in eight years. For a month you ploughed through your misery sober, then you started to think about moderate drinking. You were older, wiser, surely you had managed to reset the broken system that made you an addict. You could handle it if you were disciplined. And you were disciplined for a while: two nights drinking, five nights off. Then that ratio slowly shifted. You’re sixty years old now, drinking in The Crossroads every day, all day. You don’t drink as wildly as before, but it’s still hollowing you out slowly. You’ve no friends outside The Crossroads, no family who still want to talk to you. Sometimes you catch your reflection in the pub’s toilet mirror— a ghost looks back. But you’re technically alive and probably will be for a while, as long as you sit at the end of that bar attached to your drip feed. Functioning alcoholism, it’s called. You function. That’s all.

18: You try to sleep and sink into brief sweaty dozes then wake, heart racing, pillow damp with sweat. You’ve swiped away four messages from work. Suddenly you can’t take the maddening jangle of your nerves any more. You have to do something.

Do you: go to the pub to take the edge off the hangover (MOVE-TO-#13) or call a friend (MOVE-TO-#29)?

19: AA turns out to be revelatory. You cry twice when people say things about drinking you thought only you understood. Afterwards, a few friendly people come up to you and congratulate you on taking this first step. They urge you to keep coming back. You agree. But once the euphoria’s faded and that insidious craving is back, will you actually stick to your resolution? Do you still have that level of control over your drinking? Over your life?

Dice time! Throw 1 or 2: MOVE-TO-#16. 3 or 4: MOVE-TO-#21. 5: MOVE-TO-#35. 6: MOVE-TO-#10.

20: After an hour back at the office, your manager pulls you into a meeting room and asks if you’ve been drinking. You almost lie but see it in her eyes—she knows. One small drink with lunch, you mumble. She sighs and says you need help, that the company will do its best, but you should go home until she works out next steps.

Do you: go directly home (MOVE-TO-#27) or stop at a pub on the way to soften the rampaging anxiety (MOVE-TO-#13)?

21: You go to three AA meetings and don’t drink, though your hands still shake and sweat oozes from you every day. After three meetings, you think you deserve a reward. One drink. You won’t go back to daily drinking, you’ll learn to moderate. Time to go to the pub. (MOVE-TO-#13).

22: Jesus fuck but you’re wrecked. How’d you get to this party? Who’d you come with? Who’re these people? You just had a fight with someone, can’t remember who or what about, but they walked away from you. Fucking coward. Now you’re chatting to this woman, probably attractive once. She has some coke, do you want some? You don’t really do drugs but maybe she’s still semi-attractive, maybe it could be fun. But you’re far too fucking drunk to think clearly.

Dice time! Throw even: follow her into the toilet (MOVE-TO-#32). Odd: say no, you’re going home (MOVE-TO-#7).

23: You dial Alex, heart accelerating. The phone rings and rings and you mournfully begin to fear he won’t answer, he’ll never answer again, that he’s written you off forever and the truth is you deserve it.

Dice time! 5 or 6, Alex answers—MOVE-TO-#31. 1 to 4, give up and call Sean, your drinking buddy—MOVE-TO-#11.

24: Slipping was a gradual process. You stopped going to meetings. You forgot how bad the drinking really was. Maybe you’d been hasty, you thought—everyone’s a bit excessive when young. On your thirtieth birthday you rewarded yourself with one drink. Then, when you didn’t become an instant raging alcoholic, you let yourself drink occasionally. And then regularly. And then daily. In fact, you’re going for a drink now: MOVE-TO-#13.

25: You call Alex, but he doesn’t answer. You cry as you lurch homewards. You pass a fox in the dark street. London’s full of urban foxes, mangy sad things. It freezes when it sees you, then relaxes. It knows you’re no threat. It pities you. As you fumble with your keys at your door, your phone rings. It’s Alex. You try to talk, but you’re a slurring, weeping wreck. He says he won’t speak to you when you’re like this but if you really want help, call him tomorrow. The problem is, you’re now in that blurry blackout zone. Will you remember?

Dice time! 5 or 6, you remember: MOVE-TO-#23. Otherwise: MOVE-TO-#7.

26: Wait a minute. You’re not supposed to be here. None of the paths lead here. You didn’t play the game properly, did you? And guess what. That’s the easiest way to win. MOVE-TO-#33.

27: You’re almost home, but walking past your local pub. The impulse to go in, just for one drink, is almost overpowering.

Dice time! If you throw even, MOVE-TO-#15. If odd, MOVE-TO-#13.

28: God, you hated that orgy of self-pity, that bunch of losers talking about their pathetic lives. If that’s what sobriety looks like, no thanks. But it might work as a warning. Better to slow down than end up like them, living those lives… And look, there’s still time to grab a drink: MOVE-TO-#13.

29: You could call Sean, your best drinking buddy. He was fired a year ago, so he’s always available if he’s not completely drunk. Or you could call Alex, once your closest friend and your companion on a hundred binges—until he stopped drinking, suddenly, and you drifted apart, more slowly.

Do you: call Alex (MOVE-TO-#23)? Or do you call Sean? If Sean, throw your dice. Even, MOVE-TO-#11? Odd, MOVE-TO-#9.

30: Shit, you drank that beer fast. You feel better now, pressure eased. You can think. Maybe just a little more will help you think even better?

Do you: drink a glass of that disgusting bottle of sherry from Christmas (MOVE-TO-#7) or be sociable and head to the pub (MOVE-TO-#13)?

31: Alex answers and you start babbling and crying, tell him you can’t stop, that you’re drowning. He asks if you’re serious about stopping this time and you say yes. He agrees to meet you at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting later. After the call, you feel much better. Actually, perhaps you were over-reacting? Maybe you don’t need to be totally drastic and quit, maybe you can just try moderation? You try to make a clear decision but it’s like there’s two versions of you at war.

Dice time! Throw odd and you don’t go to the meeting, you head to the pub instead: MOVE-TO-#13. Even: you stay sober and catch a taxi to the meeting: MOVE-TO-#14.

32: Someone shakes you awake. Oh fuck, you’ve passed out on a stranger’s couch. Shit. What time is it? This is why you hate drugs—you just drink more and everything gets messier. Is this the same party? Where’d that woman go? The guy who shook you tells you to fuck off home and you try to punch him but miss. Three people drag you outside. You want to catch a taxi but can’t find your fucking wallet. You bang at the door but nobody opens. Okay, fucking fine, you’ll walk home.

Dice time! If odd, MOVE-TO-#39, if even MOVE-TO-#37.

33: You’ve been sober fifteen years. You don’t take it for granted, you’ve known other people last longer and slip up. One good friend died during a relapse binge. But the truth is alcohol does feel like history now. Sober life isn’t perfect because life isn’t perfect, but sometimes you wake up from a nightmare where you were drinking, and sob with relief in your bed because it was only a dream. You’re alive, you’re here, you’re sober. You’re one of the lucky ones. You’re so fucking lucky.

34: You’re in a Church basement full of strangers. Despite your anxiety and shaking hands, you try to concentrate as people talk about the miseries of drinking and the ways they stay sober. But is this meeting really going to help?

Dice time! Even: MOVE-TO-#28. Odd: MOVE-TO-#19.

35: You become a sobriety evangelist, attending five AA meetings weekly. You learn to understand and accept the harm you’ve done to others and yourself. You become a better person. And then, because you are human, you slowly begin to take it all for granted. The question is—how much?

Dice time! 1 or 2, MOVE-TO-#17. 3, MOVE-TO-#10. 4, MOVE-TO-#36. 5 OR 6, MOVE-TO-#24.

36. AA saved your life but eventually you decided it wasn’t right for you. The religious aspects started to chafe and you learnt to look after yourself in other ways. You overcame years of inverted snobbery and started therapy, you took up long distance running, you met your wonderful wife, you had two mostly wonderful kids. Being sober became part of you, but not all of you. MOVE-TO-#33.

37: Welcome to Rock Bottom! Population: you! (and millions of other miserable addicts). Oh, you’ve been here before? Probably. It’s a lie that there’s one rock bottom and then you mystically ascend to sobriety. You can hit rock bottom a dozen times and get back up and lurch onwards. Still, this is fucking disgusting, right? Look at you, waking up in a fucking ditch at 4am. Your house is just down the road, two minutes away, but you’re such a fucking disaster you couldn’t even make it that far. You’re wet and cold around the crotch and you know what that means. Christ. You’re so fucking pathetic. You have a sudden urge to call Alex, your best friend for years, until he gave up alcohol and drifted apart. But it’s so late. Can you really call him now?

Do you: wait to call him tomorrow (MOVE-TO-#7) or seize the moment right now (MOVE-TO-#25)?

38: Did you really believe nobody can smell vodka on your breath? Alcoholics have told themselves this lie for years. MOVE-TO-#20.

39: You never woke into another morning. What happened? Maybe you staggered in front of a car, maybe you had a heart attack—does it really matter? Game over, you lost. If you want, you can play the Drinking Game again. But ask yourself—is it worth it? Will you make better choices? Do you think you’ll have better luck? There really are fates worse than death, you know. But, fine, go for it. Maybe things will be different this time. Roll that dice.

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