calories | sally face (rewrite)

2 | whiskey, sugar, salt

hey this chapter contains excessive alcohol use. it's nothing super detailed, and there's no violence but there's a pretty bad argument. ill use 🥃 as an indicator of where the alcohol use starts and ends.
it also contains a binge episode, a breakdown/panic attack (yeah that went well) and talk about miscarriage and death.
stay safe <3
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"I'll see you later, okay?" Larry was already headed down towards the basement. "Yeah, sure, man. See you."

Something felt wrong as he headed up the elevator. A strangling weight settled against his chest. Something is wrong, something awful happened and I wasn't here to help, someone is hurt and —

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The elevator dinged and the doors slide open. His head started to throb as he adjusted to the lighting change. Fucking fluorescent lights.

🥃

He was instantly hit with the smell of whiskey, and the pain became an acute ache in his temples. He closed the door as gently as possible, wincing as it creaked gently on its hinges. He could hear his father groan from the sofa, and his head poked out around the corner. He gave a delirious, lazy smile. "Sal, hey. Aren't you home a li'l early?"

"No. It's 3:45."

"Oh, is it?"

"Yeah. Not 5 o'clock like you thought it was."

"Heyyy, look it's fine! I'm fine. I mean, it's not like I'm driving or anything, right?"

"Low bar to set."

His father stood and swayed slightly, turning towards him with a near-empty bottle in his hand. "Why are you acting this way?" His voice was thick and his words seemed to fall out of him with no filter to stop them.

"Why are you drunk, dad? At not even 4 in the afternoon?"

"Ah, I have list of reasons, actually—"

"Dad—"

"Let's see: I've got a dead wife, a dead-end job, and son with a goddamn fake face who's on three different meds and won't even fucking talk about his mother—"

"Stop. Stop, stop fucking talking. Stop it."

"See?"

"Fuck off. Wanna go get drunk? Go to a fucking bar. Hell, get in your car and drive somewhere for all I care. Just stop fucking talking. Stop talking about me like I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you."

🥃

It was quiet, and Sal took the opportunity to pick his bag back up from where he abandoned it by the door and didn't give his father a chance to do anything more. They'd work it out later. They'd talk it out, or they wouldn't, and they'd pretend it didn't happen. It didn't matter.

His skin felt too tight. He reached to pull at his hair, but just tugged it out of the pigtails to mess with the ends. He was so fucking aware of every sensation. His pants, his hair, his prosthetic, his shoes, his shirt, the hair ties on his wrists, everything was touching him too much, he was suffocating.

He was headed for the elevator before he was even fully aware he was moving. He fiddled with the ends of his hair while he waited, feeling the way the old elevator shifted and creaked. When it opened, he finally became fully aware of where he was. He felt nauseous. He felt so stupid. Why did he come here? Of all the places he could have went?

So he sat in a chair and waited to come off it. He sat and tapped his knee up and down and tugged on the ends of his hair until his scalp ached. "Fuck, fuck."