Chapter 1: The Drip
Shon Redem wasn’t a morning person. He wasn’t an evening person either. He was, by all accounts, a coffee person. Coffee fiend was more accurate. He lived for the aroma, the burn, and the relentless energy that caffeine injected into his bloodstream. Shon wasn’t famous, nor did he care to be. His life was a mess of smeared charcoal sketches, unfinished paintings, and old skate decks with cracked wheels. The only constant was his vice—the dark, bitter nectar of the gods, as he called it. Coffee was the one thing that tied his world together.
He spent his days slinking from one coffee shop to another, his skateboard his only mode of transportation. In the world he drifted through, baristas were priests, coffee shops were temples, and the java itself was a sacred elixir.
On the hazy October morning that started it all, Shon sat hunched over his drawing pad in an East Side café called The Bitter Bean. The shop was a hole-in-the-wall, barely visible behind creeping ivy and graffiti. Only the locals knew about it, and that’s how Shon liked it. The baristas here knew his order by heart—double espresso, black, no sugar. He liked his coffee like he liked his art: raw, undiluted, and a little dangerous.
As he took the first sip, Shon felt the familiar heat spread through his chest, searing him awake. He needed this. The caffeine took hold of him like a lover’s grip, holding his mind hostage as it propelled him into the early afternoon with an obsessive vigor. His hand shook slightly as he brought his pen to the paper, but it was a good shake, the kind that gave his lines a jagged, unpredictable edge. He couldn’t draw clean lines anymore. Not since the coffee took hold of him.
Chapter 2: The Fix
For most people, coffee was a morning routine, a ritual that started the day. For Shon, it was the day. The idea of moderation had evaporated long ago, around the time he’d stopped counting his daily cups. He’d tried every kind of coffee there was, every method of brewing. He’d explored espresso shots, Turkish coffee, cold brews, drip coffee, AeroPress, and French press. But the thrill was always fleeting. It didn’t matter how potent the brew, eventually, he’d crash, and when he did, he’d spiral into a darkness even coffee couldn’t touch.
That was the thing about coffee—it wasn’t just a drink for Shon; it was an all-consuming presence that demanded respect, obedience, and sacrifice. The local shops all knew him, and even if they didn’t understand his obsession, they welcomed him like a regular. He was, in his own way, a disciple of caffeine. To them, he was just the jittery artist, perpetually sketching in one corner or another, his skateboard propped against his table. They tolerated his scribbles, his manic mutterings, and his restless energy because he was good for business, and he tipped well, when he remembered to tip at all.
His friends—if you could call them that—often teased him about it. They called him “Coffee King,” “Buzz Lord,” “Java Junkie.” They thought it was funny, harmless even. But Shon knew better. He’d long since passed the point where coffee was just a habit. It was a need, a visceral ache he couldn’t shake. Without it, his hands shook, his thoughts clouded over, and he became an irritable mess.
Chapter 3: Crashing Down
One night, after a long day spent sketching at The Drip House, Shon had his first real crash. It wasn’t like the mild slumps he usually had, where he’d slump in his seat and drift into a half-sleep. No, this was worse, a suffocating darkness that closed in on him, leaving him dizzy and nauseous.
He had been drinking coffee non-stop since 9 a.m. By midnight, he was a husk of himself, jittery and hollow. He left the café, skateboard under his arm, and tried to make it back to his apartment. He stumbled through the streets, the caffeine-induced adrenaline battling with a wave of crippling fatigue that had no right being so strong. The world spun around him, blurring into neon lights and graffiti-splattered walls. He leaned against a building, trying to catch his breath, his heart pounding so fast he feared it might burst.
“Hey man, you good?” a voice asked.
Shon looked up to see a kid, maybe 19, holding a vape pen in one hand and an iced latte in the other. Shon scoffed. The kid didn’t know what he was talking about. This wasn’t a matter of “good” or “not good.” This was life or death. He managed a nod, pushed himself off the wall, and kept moving, his hands clenching the edge of his board so hard his knuckles turned white.
That night, he collapsed on his mattress, fully dressed, his shoes still on. He was empty, drained beyond anything he’d ever felt. When he woke up the next morning, his hands shook so hard he couldn’t hold his pencil. He’d never felt so vulnerable, so powerless.
Chapter 4: The Withdrawal
The crash had scared him, but not enough to stop. Instead, Shon became more cautious, learning to pace his consumption. He started rationing his cups, trying to limit himself to six shots a day, though he often broke his own rules. He began experimenting with other stimulants—anything to give him that edge without the dreaded caffeine crash. Energy drinks, pills, herbal concoctions. Nothing hit quite like coffee, but it kept him going, kept him drawing, kept him alive.
As the weeks went on, Shon’s health deteriorated. He was losing weight, his skin had a sickly pallor, and dark circles framed his eyes. His art took on a darker tone, reflecting his own descent into this coffee-fueled abyss. The caffeine made him paranoid, his thoughts darting in every direction, unable to settle on any one thing. He started sketching twisted, surreal images—figures with elongated limbs, faces with hollow eyes, creatures that seemed to leap off the page in desperation.
His skateboard, once a source of freedom, became a burden, its wheels grinding on the cracked concrete as he trudged from one café to the next. Each cup brought a fleeting burst of energy, but the crashes grew worse, each one a little darker, a little more suffocating. He was stuck in a loop, unable to break free but too afraid to stop.
Chapter 5: The Final Brew
One rainy evening, Shon found himself in a new café, one he’d never noticed before. It was called The Last Drop, a name that felt both ominous and oddly comforting. The barista, an older man with a knowing smile, handed Shon a mug of something darker and thicker than any coffee he’d ever seen.
“What’s in this?” Shon asked, eyeing the drink suspiciously.
The barista shrugged, a mysterious glint in his eye. “Something special. On the house.”
Desperate and exhausted, Shon took a sip. It was bitter, even more so than usual, but it sent a warmth through his veins that felt different from the usual caffeine jolt. It was almost calming. For the first time in years, Shon felt a sense of peace. He took another sip, savoring the taste, letting the warmth spread through him. His hands stopped shaking, his mind cleared, and he felt a clarity he hadn’t felt in ages.
When he finished, he felt…empty, but in a good way, like he’d finally been freed from something that had been weighing him down. He looked at the barista, who just nodded, a silent understanding passing between them.
Shon left the café that night and walked back to his apartment, his skateboard slung over his shoulder. He didn’t stop for coffee the next morning. Or the morning after that.
Epilogue: A Different Kind of High
Months passed, and Shon’s art began to change. The jagged lines smoothed out, the dark figures softened. His hands no longer shook. He still visited the occasional café, but he ordered tea now, sipping it slowly, savoring it without the urgency that had once defined his life. The itch was still there, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he’d learned to control it, to keep it at bay.
Every so often, he’d pass by The Last Drop, wondering if the mysterious barista was still there, wondering if he’d ever need another taste of that final brew. But for now, he was content to let it remain a memory, a reminder of the high that had almost consumed him and the peace he’d found in letting it go.