Intoxicated

Chapter Four

Something follows me all the way home. This unnerving feeling gnawing at the edges of the hole in my chest. What Jace said about Alex - or didn't say. My hands are shaking as I unlock the front door of my house. I mean, what could Alex have done? It's Alex. I lock the door shut behind me, the click of the lock filling the house. Which is of course empty.

Dad must be stuck at work. I shrug off my jacket, sweating despite the numbness of my cheeks. Or stuck in traffic. He works at a workshop and it's a small town, so it wouldn't be busy. Maybe his car broke down. 

Then again, what can't he fix? He fixes things for a living. 

Our family. 

I look around the house, recalling memories of the previous one. Comparing. The scratchy wooden floor creaks underfoot. Neither of them were much, really - both having a single bathroom, two bedrooms, a small lounge and an oversized kitchen. As well as a laundry room that only Mom used. 

Now I do it. Not because Dad can't, but because he's never really here. When he is, he's either slumped on the kitchen floor with a half empty bottle of liquor or slouched on the couch with a can of diet coke, grunts and shouts of rugby players sounding from the TV. He's never even been to a game, and we both know the soda doesn't give him the same kick. 

But whatever keeps him off it. I make my way down the gray-carpeted hall, softening my steps. Even if it's just for a few days. His room is at the end, door left wide open, revealing a double bed for one. I pause for a moment, staring at the tidy, tucked in white sheets. He's always kept it clean, like Mom did. It looks like something from a warehouse article - simple and not a single crease to be found.

I guess it's just his way of coping. One of them, at least.

Sighing, I nudge open my bedroom door. Now that I think of it, we both leave our doors open. Nothing to hide here - except maybe the dirty clothes scattered across the floor. I kick off my shoes to the end of my bed. It's the opposite of his; singular, pigeon coloured sheets and blankets draping off the side. 

One day I'll commit to making my bed. One day.

For now, I flop on it, staring up at the ceiling. My heart rate is only just starting to slow down. No thanks to Jace and his stuck-up jocks. The other one, though... who he shoved... I know him. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, turning onto my side. Noah? I think? 

I run a hand through my tangled, timber coloured hair. He probably has Instagram or something. My eyes drift to my desk - same colour - with my cheap laptop on top. I clamber out of bed and pull out the old, office spinny chair, compliments of Dad's workshop. I open my laptop and switch on, slouching back. My stomach grumbles loudly.

The computer screen flickers on, bits of it's bright blue background glitching black. It'll probably take a while, I think. I should eat. 

The chair squeaks as I get up. Something brushes past the door. I pause, the silence thickening. What? An ache starts in my stomach, and it's not hunger. Maybe. Unless I'm getting... haranoid? Like hangry, but paranoid...? I shake the thought away, scoffing at myself. Nothing is there. What even would be? 

Reluctantly, I push back the chair and march down the hallway, forcing my shoulders back. Show them or it I'm not scared, just in case. You're being ridiculous. The moment I set foot into the kitchen, my mouth turns dry.

My eyes can't help but flicker around, making sure there's nothing there. Of course there isn't. I run my hand along the chestnut coloured counter tops, before grabbing a glass from one of the off-white cabinets above them. I motion over to the tap and turn it on, filling my glass to the top. I wonder when Dad's getting home, I think as I tip it down my throat. Hopefully soon.