‘Hello, old friends.’ He reached in, grabbed the first bottle his fingers touched, and made his way over to the sofa. Whiskey. His favourite poison.
Straight from the bottle?
Come on, at least be classy.
He placed the bottle on the coffee table and ventured back to the kitchen for a glass. It was true, his mother deserved a proper send-off, and drinking from the bottle was anything but proper. He threw himself down, coat and shoes still on, and laid his head in his hands.
‘What are you doing, Fin?’ He sighed, the emotions of the day, of the past few months, sitting heavy on his shoulders.
You don’t have to do this.
It’s not worth it.
The memory of Eleanor’s face loomed darkly in his mind.The look on her face after he kissed her: so repulsed, so embarrassed.
Don’t think about it.
Just do it.
He reached for the bottle. As he poured the amber liquid into the glass, the smell alone made his head spin. He closed his eyes and held the rim to his lips. If he was going to do this, he at least had to try and savour every moment. Besides, it was one drink. Things were different now. He hadcontrolnow.
Fin held the glass in mid-air and brought the image of his mother to his mind. The old frail shadow of the woman he’d spent so much time with the past few months. The young, carefree version of his mum who had laughed and played with him as a boy. The broken, crumpled heap of his mother, who had cried herself to sleep on the bathroom floor when he needed her most.
‘To you, Mum. May you rest in peace.’ He raised his drink and downed it in one.
His throat seared and his stomach convulsed at the touch of the liquid. He closed his eyes tight and allowed the burning sensation to engulf him. Then slowly, very slowly, he felt it.
Nothing.
At last. He felt nothing.
Fin reached for the bottle and poured himself another. He needed one more.
One more glass of nothing.
*
There was a knocking. Somewhere just outside his reach was a loud, hard knocking. He tried to swat it away with his hand but his limbs were too heavy to move.
‘Leave me alone,’ he mumbled, the words catching on the dryness in his throat.
‘Fin!’ a familiar voice shouted. ‘Fin. Let me in!’
His eyes sprung open.
‘Finley Taylor, I know you’re in there,’ Eleanor barked. ‘Open this door or I’ll call the police,’ she demanded, the knocking getting louder and louder with each passing second.
Fuck.
‘OK,’ he called back hoarsely. ‘I’m coming.’
Carefully, cautiously, he sat upright. The room gave a horrifying lurch and he closed his eyes quickly. When he opened them again, thankfully everything had returned to its rightful place and he forced himself to stand. He edged his way over to the door and slowly opened it.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Eleanor stood, hand outstretched, ready to hammer at the door once again. She stepped across the threshold without asking and placed her hand on his arm. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thanks.’ He laughed sarcastically. ‘I buried my mum today, so forgive me for not looking my best.’ As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop his words from slurring, blending into one another in a haze of whiskey fumes.
‘How much have you had?’ she asked, steering him back into the flat towards the sofa. Her eyes clocked the empty bottle and he could see the shock in her eyes.
