Drink the Milk

Please don’t ask the context for this post, because there is literally none. And now…


“Drink the milk,” the man commanded.

I did not want to drink the milk. I did not want to sit in this chair. I wanted to be at home with my girlfriend, watching Seinfeld reruns and eating ice cream.

We stared at each other. Neither one of us moved. Condensation formed on the glass.

“Drink the milk.”

The clock on the wall seemed to grow louder with each passing tick.




What if I just drank it? Got it over with. No one would have to know. Of course, except me. And then I would live a lie for the rest of my life… I’d have to look my son in the eye one day and unflinchingly say I never drank the milk. That was something I could not look forward to. I can’t drink it.

The officer leaned forward. I could see my worried expression in the reflection of his sunglasses. “Drink it.” He pushed the glass closer to my side of the table. “Pick it up and do it.”

I swallowed. The air seemed so thick. The room so small. I began sweating. This milk was everything wrong with society and my defiance was one step closer to a better future. But… This officer…

I grasped the glass with a strong grip, letting the condensation beads squeeze through my fingers. I don’t know why I grabbed it. The officer must have thought I had changed my mind because a wry smile slowly crawled its way on his face. I let go. The officer frowned.

“Drink the milk.”

I sat there and twiddled my thumbs. I had heard the stories—the rare stories where people did not drink it. They reentered society and proudly proclaimed their triumph. Of course, the officers did not let them live long after that, but the principle of the issue was brought into greater light.

How would I get out of this one?

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