𝗕𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘

𝟲𝟮. 𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴

Song: Nothing breaks like a heart— Mikey Cyrus

I finish my second, maybe third bottle of whiskey and drop it horizontally on the table. It hits the already empty ones, making a real fucking racket. The back of my head hits the leather cushioning of this booth, a pool of alcohol rippling around my otherwise empty stomach.

I can't remember the last time I ate. It's just drink, sleep, throw it all up, repeat. I should probably be in hospital, but I'm never even home so no one knows the type of state I'm in right now. No one knows I'm passively killing myself, they all just think I'm already dead, and I can't find a mistake in that either.

I'm sitting opposite a man I only just met, yet we've not spoken a word. I don't even know his name, just sat at his booth since it was the only empty one and he didn't seem like the type to raise a fuss. A few guys join us, telling me to move over so I do. Head still spinning, the music doesn't help.

They pass me a drink, another bottle of something I can't and don't need to read. I just accept the offer and hope for the best, but by the time it's against my lips the smell has already shot me and my throat's been struck like a match on gasoline. Vodka.

I shake my head and pass the bottle straight back with my tongue out like some kind of animal. But that's exactly what I feel like recently. Never human, more like a robot because I don't know how I'm functioning but I still am. Still manage wake up each morning (unfortunately,) still manage to brush my teeth, occasionally hop in the shower and take myself out the apartment.

I walk myself over to the bar, in need of another drink and grateful that this place couldn't give a fuck about your health or how many you're downing so long as they're making a decent pay check. I order another Jack Daniels and hang my head down low whilst I wait. This has got to be the fourth night I've found myself here, not this exact place but somewhere like it. I can't stay home for too long— the apartment— it's not home anymore, and Lucas won't let me train for more than four hours, two in the morning, two in the evening.

School doesn't expect me to turn up until I'm feeling better, either. Stupid thing to say, that. Because I'm never going to feel better, nope, never. They say it gets easier, things become easier— to understand, accept, live with and move on from. I don't believe them in the slightest. I'll never understand it and it feels like I'll never ever fucking be able to move from the place I'm in right now.

There's no joy in anything, she's taken it all with her, every last ounce. Stolen in a blink, a rash decision, she was so selfish it makes me want to scream.

Someone clears their throat, obnoxiously fucking loud. I look up, blonde hair and blue eyes, almost mistook her for Arabella but that'd be just about as miraculous as expecting to see Beau kicking back on one of these stools. She points her finger to my drink, her nails are long and square; but they're not red, thank God.