Tethered

Nineteen || Booth

{Noah (Stand Still) ~ Noah Cyrus}

...Six months sober, but nothing much has changed, Life's not over, but I'm feeling twice the pain, And I'm not better, but I'm not quite the same, It keeps coming, so I keep counting the days...

----

The taste lingered too long in its sour ache. The loss of memories felt trapped in an altered space that maybe if I returned, I would get it back. I would find the proof, not just the ghostly echoes in cologne or harsh hands. I would have the red line connecting the dots to the case closed, not just a hazy bad dream. So I returned to its poison. Drink after drink after drink. Night after night after night.

All I found was that the truth was harder to find here in this high but easier to ignore. This numb tingling could be the alcohol or the pain cementing in my brain. Either way, the tears were just 'too much vodka'. The rage was too much powder in my nose. The sobering slap back to reality left me with nothing but despair. A haunted memory. There was nothing concrete to grasp but the bottle.

And it wasn't about the party. It wasn't about the event. Whose birthday it was, or if it was Friday anymore? All that remained was the sleeplessness. The rocking effigy of my body in my bed, begging my brain to either forget it altogether or give me the full story. No more of this taunting. No more of this half-remembered face, and blackout darkness. I returned to the scene, trying to remember... Walked the same barefoot journey home while the morning larks cried for me. They saw it all. Night after night after night.

----

Saturdays in the Blue Lagoon mean one thing: Karaoke. That's what Scarlett reminds me, anyway. She stomps her feet and bangs on the table to Cawley's passionate rendition of Whitney Houston's 'How Will I Know', while my eyes leak tears of laughter as he dances and belts his way through every word.

Earl dances alongside him by the bar, waiting for the next round of drinks. Two beers, two tequila and sodas, and one lemonade. I hold my gaze on his lips as they curl around the order to the bartender, the same as he has three times before tonight, making sure with certainty that it is just lemonade he orders.

John-Joe winces through his painted smile as Cawley croons to the rafters in this little dive bar, only intensifying my laughter further. It feels like my abdomen will cramp up if I laugh any more, that my lungs will give in, and my eyes will cry off every drop of mascara before the song finishes.

"Lord," John-Joe blesses himself dramatically. "Blessed Whitney, may you forgive that boy for desecrating your memory with this mockery of your legacy."

"Oh, stop it John-Joe!" Scarlett playfully scolds him. "He's having fun."

"He could have picked any song, Scarlett," John-Joe reminds us. "But no, he has to pick the one he knows I would always sing."

"You refused to sign up," I join in. "I wanted to hear you let rip on a Whitney track."

"Well," he sighs. "Maybe after another tequila."

John-Joe gives me a wink, before our necks crane to see Earl precariously carrying the tray of drinks to the table, trusting in his measured pace to get them to us safely.

"Did someone order Tequila?" He bellows. "Your wish is my command."

"Ladies, if he wasn't painfully straight, Mr Earl Teller would be the Bachelor of the gays in Laurel Valley," John-Joe says playfully. "What a gentleman."