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The Bottle

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I found it, earlier that night at a yard sale. It was beside a grizzled hunting knife. An old soda pop bottle. It could've been one of the first ones ever made. And because the oldest sodas contained, shall we say, "illegal substances" they never went bad and you could count on them to help you relax. So I asked the man what he wanted and he retorted with some absurdly massive amount of money, almost four figures. I was outraged, but then his wife caught wind of what he was doing, and with a sharp look and a whispered word, he immediately offered me but one hundred dollars. I had no problem shelling out the cash for such a rare find as this.

I walked down Central, casually unscrewing the lid and taking a large gulp before stowing back under my coat. Central was perhaps the busiest road in town, and I was amazed to find not a soul in sight. My only companion was the white march hare that hopped beside me, resolute. The air suddenly grew cold, and I huddle for warmth. I had my beloved parcel wrapped inside my coat and it seemed to radiate its own pulsing heat, and I was grateful for it. I turned off of Central down Mohawk, well, what I thought was Mohawk, for the wind had grown so strong that it ripped a pole right out of the ground.

"You had better get along home now, rabbit. You'd hate to be outside in this storm." I knew the road well, however, and had no problem finding my way home even with there not being a single road sign anywhere.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched, which caused me to drop my keys.

"Damn it!" I swore aloud, shocked at my own foul temper. "Relax," I mumbled to myself, "They're just keys, it's not like they can kill you or anything."

I sighed and crossed the threshold, tossing my keys into the little turtle next to the door that I kept for the sole purpose of holding my keys. The turtle crashed to the ground and shattered against the tile with a incredibly loud crunching sound. I bent down to pick it up, but was amazed to find blood along the edges of the pieces. I had no visible wounds, but I assumed that I must've just cut my self on something earlier and not realized it when I went for my keys.

After gathering the shards I headed towards my living room, being particularly careful to turn on every light in the house. I don't know why I did it, but for some strange reason I was terrified.

"I could really use that Coke right about now," I said, plopping myself down onto my couch and pulling out my purchase. I carefully unscrewed it and smelled it.

It seemed a thousand years too ripe, but I steeled my self and tilted my head back. The bottle seemingly leaped from my hand, forcing itself down my throat, deeper, deeper, I was suffocating, I couldn't breathe. I grabbed at the end and I tried to pull it out, to keep from dying, but It broke in my hand, slicing my fingers open, the bottle shattering in my throat and the shards forcing themselves outward, slitting my throat.

The officers at the scene were amazed at the grizzly sight. The only thing they found was an emptied bottle of Coca Cola, one that was old enough to contain cocaine, but had almost four times the norm in it, and a mangled body with a hunter's knife in its throat.

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