The steady thump of pain behind my eyes worsens when I turn my head and peer over at the nightstand. I grab my phone and brighten the screen. It’s like someone is in my face with a flashlight. I squint through the newfound sensitivity behind my eyelids and note the time.
I slept through breakfast and nearly lunchtime.
Brown eyes invade my memory when I turn back over, their color matching the liquid of the Jack Daniel’s.
I want to hate Violet for showing up last night, for pushing me, and finally making me snap. I was doing so good at keeping Jack at an arm’s length. But then I had no choice but to crack her chest wide open. I saw the look on her face. She came to get me to see reason, to get me to open my ears and heart to the fact that I can trust and lean on her. I didn’t listen. Instead, I took advantage of her. The thought of it triggers the gnawing pain in my gut to pinch sharper, causing my throat to spasm with the possibility of a heave.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why did I let her give me a blow job?
Why didn’t I tell hernoand immediately walk her out to her car?
Mom is gone, and now Violet is, too.
All thanks to me.
This sense of anguish trickles through me, not near as potent as last night, but it’s there nonetheless. I find the bottle of Jack on the floor at my feet when I sit up and make it to the edge of the bed. What's left of the golden liquid sloshes when I kick it out of my way.
I make it to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. It’s the best thing I’ve felt since before Aunt Bess’s fundraiser. Even though Mom was in lockup, life felt hopeful back then. I had the girl of my dreams. Finn was paid off. I was in the clear and finally ready to figure out my life.
I cup another handful and toss it at my face. It helps calm the nausea stirring in my gut, and when I look at myself in the mirror, I’m met with blue eyes I’d rather not see. Blue eyes that are submerged so deep in a murky marsh that they can’t see clearly. Blue eyes that are desperate to get a handle on the grief stirring them into obsidian swirls.
A heaviness I don’t see coming hits me square in the chest and pushes itself up behind my eyelids. The pressure comes next. Before I know what’s happening, my chest cracks wide open, and I’m crying at the bathroom sink. I clutch the porcelain like there’s something grabbing at my feet, trying to pull me away.
“Why?” I bellow out, pressing my fingers to my eyes to get rid of the sting. “Things were messed up, but why did you have to go and do this? You could’ve gotten better.”
Just like all those other times.
The possibility was there. It existed.
Until she took those drugs and blew it all away.
The truth of never seeing Mom again knocks me off my feet. I slide down to the bathroom floor and knock my head against the sink as I try to catch my breath. The sobs worsen, the pain engulfing me like a goddamn wildfire, burrowing its way under my skin and into my bones.
My mind goes on a wild goose chase, searching and seeing all the different ways this could have played out. It won’t make a difference, I know that, but it helps lessen the panic in my chest and brings me back to the awful reality that is my life.
If I were only a few years younger, I’d be orphaned by Mom’s departure.
I’m thanking fuck that’s not the case when I hear someone at the front door. I wipe my mini meltdown from my face and cup another handful of cold water to throw at it. Something tells me it’s Sebastian. He’s the only one who’s shown up regularly, and it’s always in the mornings.
The knocks sound again, so I head out and open the door to find Aunt Bess. I have to do a double take to make sure I’m looking at the right person, but she’s standing right there. Four feet away from me in the flesh and blood with eyes that look like they’ve been through a waterfall of tears.
Relief settles on her face, and it’s the exact thing I don’t want to see. Sadness and sorrow. Sympathy and empathy. She wishes she could take away what I’m going through, but she can’t because she’s going through it herself.
I let the door hang open and walk into the house. She follows silently, shutting it as I make it to the futon and sit. I prop my elbow up and run my finger over my lip.
She blows out an unsteady breath. “I can’t remember the last time I was in this house.”
Neither can I.
Maybe when she brought Mom back from rehab and promised she’d be there for her every step of the way. Suddenly, I’m angry at her for not trying harder. For not being in her sister’s life more. For nothelpingme.
I stare at the wall. “Does it even matter?”
“I guess in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t.” She sits down next to me. “I wanted to check on you. How are you holding up?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I tell her, trying to cover the bite in my tone and the sting in my eyes.
