An addict who has slipped.
An addict who hates himself.
An addict who hates his own weaknesses, even after almost nineteen years.
There’s no such thing as a former addict.
I lurch to my feet and make my way into the bathroom, the bathroom farthest from the master suite where Olivia presumably still sleeps. I don’t even look at myself in the mirror, not yet ready to view the damage. The disgrace. Not yet ready to face myself.Instead, I switch on the shower and step immediately under the scalding stream. I press my hands against the tile, letting the water crash down on the back of my head and my neck, easing the knots in my shoulders and spine.
What the fuck happened?
Being in bars, pubs, clubs, and restaurants, being around wine, beer and all kinds of liquor—drinking the stuff, has never been an issue before. It was never my drug of choice to begin with, coke was my king. Booze was just to lengthen the buzz. But since getting clean, moderation has served me. The only difference between last night and a million others was the company I kept.
Was it the combination that pushed me over the edge?
Between booze and Olivia, I know which the stimulant was, and the high I craved was the one found between her legs.
Everything in moderation. Restraint and self-control are key.
A state of mind I can’t seem to embody when I’m near Olivia.
I straighten, pushing the thought from my head and water from my face as I reach for the shampoo. I’ve mixed my vices since recovery. Drank and fucked. Fucked and drank.
But never used.I’ve never needed to.
I get the high I need these days by making money. It’s not the same kind of high, but at least it’s an acceptable one. A high that drives me to fill my pockets, not empty them for the benefit of my dealer. Making money is an honest drug. Acceptable to society and one that keeps me out of prison.Out of a grave.So I drank a little too much and I fucked. What was the difference?
Olivia. Only Olivia.
My absolute desire for her was in the sensation of need crawling out of my skin, and once inside her, my pleasure centres lit up like a fucking pinball machine, as though she was the hit coursing through my bloodstream.
I soap. I rinse. I self-analyse a little more as the water serves as absolution, my sins sluiced away and swirling around my feet.
I towel off, the mirror too foggy to view the damage, then wrap the thing around my waist as I make my way to the master suite. Maybe I should’ve come here first and checked that she was okay. But no. The only person I’ve ever harmed while high is myself.
I stand in the open doorway. Why does it feel like I’ve spent so much time watching her from this position? She lies on her side, her hair fanned out against the pillows, her back to me, her shoulder rising and falling in a slow, easy rhythm. I’m not sure how long I stand there, just watching. And maybe just torturing myself. But I eventually move towards the dressing room without giving in to the need to crawl between her legs again.
A couple of hours later, Olivia appears in the dining room wearing the creases from her pillow. Otherwise, she looks perfect—fresh faced and recently fucked, her hair in disarray and her cheeks rubbed a little pink.
‘Good morning.’ I barely look up from my phone. Is it telling that I can detect so many details of her appearance in just one glance?
‘It was, at least, when I woke.’ At daybreak. Aching. Shaking. Forcing myself first into the shower and then into the gym to punish myself on the treadmill. To purge again. To seek endorphins elsewhere.
She takes her seat, the same one as yesterday, the same seat that puts her breasts in reach of my fingers and makes her lips just as accessible. But I won’t think of those things. I might not be drunk, but it seems I’m still craving. I reach for my coffee cup gratified by the fact that there isn’t even a tremor in my hand. The rest of me, though? I’m trembling with need just from having her near.
‘What?’ There’s a terseness to my tone that I can’t help. I don’t want to blame her for my reactions last night, but it’s easier than blaming myself. A body can only take so much self-loathing.
She doesn’t answer, but I can almost feel her frowning. And why wouldn’t she? Last night, she had the enjoyed the company of a man who’s more beast this morning. And beasts need keeping on a leash because they are prone to giving in to their baser selves without warning.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m perfectly fine.’
‘You don’t look fine.’ I’m acceptable. Satisfactory. Well enough. Good. I am a liar, and I am none of those things
‘Thank you for your observation.’
‘Are you... hungover?’ If only it were that simple. There wouldn’t be this level of hatred to myself. ‘I’m gonna guess that’s a ...yes?’I still don’t answer. ‘But how? I mean, we didn’t have a lot to drink. Champagne and a couple of shots, but—’
