“You know, ma boy... there was a time when I... suffered... of the witches' brew.”
“What are you talking about, grandma?”, I asked her while I was setting the couch comfortable for her to have a seat. She used to call me “boy”, I don't know why. I had always worn pants and had my hair short cut though.
“What d'you mean what I'm talking 'bout, boy?! I'm talking 'bout me godamnit”. My grandma, such a nice lady. I loved her anyway. She was the only one who was left for me.
“Go on, then, grandma. I'm sure I haven't heard that story yet.”
“Will you shut up and listen to me? godamnit” In her cranky way, she stood up from the old chair and sat on the couch by herself. She didn't want my help, even though she needed it. “The witches' brew is poisonous, u know that, don't u, boy?”
“I'm not that sure... it may be, huh? It depends on the-”
“U know nothing I'm talking 'bout. But u will someday. God helps you won't.” She started to gaze at nowhere.
“So, what's this brew you were talking about, grandma?” It was usual that I had to keep her going back to the point, otherwise she would just ramble.
“Ay... boy... life is tough, but it's tougher when u agree it is. I have been drinking the witches' brew for a long time, but only now I repent it.”
At that time, I thought she was talking about some sort of a peculiar alcoholic drink she took and learned how to concoct it when she was an adolescent. I suspected she was trying to tell me she was an alcoholic, and just then she decided to admit, and tell me. I thought she was talking about a concrete thing. However, it turned out to be something sadder, something that made me realize her vice was much more deeper. And I was likely to suffer the same way, if it wasn't for her advices back then.