Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20161206231001/@comment-27905100-20161207003434

What would happen if he got caught was about as mysterious as what horrors awaited man after death. He wore slippers to muffle his footfalls and he synchronized the turning of the knob with the roar of a passing-by car preluded by a sheet of light running across the walls. His parents would make him sleep outside for a forthnight(Should be 'fortnight') if they knew he was out of bed. But what would they do if they knew why he was there? (This sentence doesn't flow well with the previous one. It's good in the idea, but the wording needs to be changed.)

He twisted the bobby-pin with the precision of an expert theif despite his shaking hands. If they would make him sit in a fucking closet for ten hours and eat some measly peas and undercooked steak for Christmas dinner, he would have his own fun.

The lock clicked. His prize gleamed in the moonlight streaming in through the kitchen window. He reached out for it when the floorboards upstairs creaked. Suddenly, light spilled out over the stairs. One of them was using the bathroom.

In the cabinet stood a bottle of gin, dark brandy and crystal-clear vodka. John lifted the bottle of vodka and looked for any markings indicating the level of liquid. With relief, he found a black line just above the label. He erased it. He glanced upstairs, and back to the cabinet before continuing.

John uncapped the bottle. It smelled of freedom and rebellion:(This should be a comma) bitter and strong. John took a good chug. A wave of warmth flooded his body.

The wave drew back to reveal a burning in John's throat. He wiped his lips, popped a tic-tac and a drew a new line with black marker. All noise upstairs stopped but John took no chances. He moved with the softness of a pillow, hoping that those tyrants were asleep.

(This feels extremely short, maybe describe the walk to the stairs.)

John's heart pounded like a heavy-metal drummer. John started hyperventilating and his vision blurred.

(")Calm down, boy. No kid ever died because of a small sip." John thought. (Perhaps italicize your thoughts or put them in single quotes rather than double quotes, as you don't want the thinker(?) to look like they're speaking.) His hands shook as he groped(I'm sorry, but this feels sexual now. OH YES, JOHN! OH YES!) the banister to pull his faltering legs up the stairs. He saw a kaleidoscope and his hands convulsed violently. He was nearly there. He would pull himself into bed, tuck himself in and never drink a drop again. He was nearly there. Just two more steps.

A paroxysm of pain shot through John's head and his legs gave out as he tumbled down the stairs and crashed against the front door. His parents stood at the head of the stairs, shadowed and unmoving.

"He's been a bad boy, has he not, dear?" John's mother said.

"Shame, I had hope for the rascal." Her husband said.

"Shame about the alcohol, really." She said.

"Yes, now we're going to have to throw it out... There's nothing to counteract the poison (I feel like that should be toxin, as as far as I know, poisons normally don't cause... spasms...), is there?"

All in all, this was pretty good. I myself don't fear my parents or liquor in general, but I feel like this was quite a good story. I like it, and want to see what you come up with next.