Clusterfuck

xxi

Toby's phone is in his pocket. He could easily pull it out and look at the time, see how long he's been sitting here, how many minutes or hours or years have passed since he entered the room. But he can't find the strength to do that right now, because no matter what digits end up showing up, the screen will still be bright as fuck and Toby's head is already pounding and he can't handle that right now, whatever now is. So as far as he's concerned, time just isn't, and time will continue not to be until he sobers up and reading a digital clock in the middle of a room drowned in darkness won't be so intensive.

He's not crying anymore, if that means anything at all. He thinks about it and it doesn't. In fact, he wishes he was still crying. Crying gave him something to do, a reason as to why he shut himself in here in the first place, should anyone ask. He hopes no one does, though. But crying kept him focused on the tears as they fell, counting them as if they were sheep, until the numbers got too high to where he couldn't count anymore. That's when he stopped crying. Maybe he should start from scratch. Maybe that would be good. Maybe starting from scratch would take him into morning time and he would be sober and he could go home. And he wouldn't need an excuse to be shut in his room because it would be Sunday and who wants to come out of their room on a Sunday? Not Toby, and definitely not Reggie either. So Toby could cry in his room in private on a Sunday and nobody would know nobody would find out and he wouldn't have to explain anything anything at all to anyone because it's Sunday.

The bottle of vodka isn't drained yet, but if Toby stays here an hour or two longer then maybe it will be. And then Toby would probably be dead, if he's not already dying. Maybe he should stop drinking. He's only nineteen.

And Leo, Leo's only twenty. Or, is he twenty yet? Is it midnight? It is Sunday? Toby doesn't know because as far as he's concerned, time just isn't.

Does Toby forget that he's nineteen every time he drinks, or does he remember and acknowledge and then forget, choose to forget? He doesn't know. He'll have to see next time, after he sobers up from tonight, he'll see next time he drinks, next time he drinks when he's nineteen.

The vodka makes noise in its bottle as Toby swishes it around and around. Swish swish swish. Toby counts the swishes instead of the tears because the tears still aren't coming. One swish, two swishes, three swishes, four—six, six and a half—Toby stops because the swishing is making him dizzy and his head is already hurting and maybe he can cry again if he just tries really really hard this time.

Cry, cry, cry. There is a lot to cry about, so cry. Cry to feel better about shit that makes you feel worse. Cry, cry, cry.

Cry about Ariel and the things she said and cry because she was right and because you know she was right. You can cry about that.

Or about Steph, what if you were Steph? What if you were Steph and you knew what Steph doesn't know right now, what if you were Steph and you found out what would you do? You would cry because how could you? How can you? Toby can cry about that.

Reggie said he didn't care when Toby thought he did and thank God he didn't, thank God Toby was wrong. Toby was and is so happy to be wrong he could cry. Or cry about being right, what if he had been right? What would have happened what would have happened? It would have been bad, terrible, something for you to cry about for a long time after. Cry about being right. What if you were right? What if he hated you, what if he hated you and thought you were disgusting and weird and bad? That would have been so bad, so bad you could cry, so cry, just cry, fucking cry about it already.

Why is it so hard now? Everything is so hard now, and crying is hardest. Crying isn't, and neither is time, because Toby just can't.

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