forgiveness (book one)

jack daniel's

iv.

jack daniel's

The bottom of the glass clinked loudly as I set the bottle down onto the coffee table, the caramel-colored liquid sloshing around inside.

It had been seven months. The funeral for Ana Marie Cole had occurred exactly 214 days ago, and I wasn't a single second closer to feeling okay again. I was beginning to think I would never go a day without shutting down, without curling into myself and shutting out anything and everything around me.

After all, I couldn't go a day without reaching for a bottle.

One of my friends from high school, Warren, lived on his own, and he'd been letting me come to his house as often as I needed to. He was trying to do it so I'd have someone to talk to, or so I'd be able to get out of my own house whenever my parents became unbearable.

Now, it seemed I only arrived on his doorstep when I wanted to drown myself in alcohol.

He was sitting across from me now, both of us washed in grey blue light from the TV's basketball game. Warren had a bottle of beer held loosely in one hand, balancing it on his right thigh. He'd only taken a few sips of the frothy mixture, and I knew he was only doing it so I wouldn't be drinking alone.

Warren knew I'd be drinking either way, but he'd always been a good guy. I knew he liked to pretend we were just two buddies having a couple drinks.

Me, I was only drinking to forget.

The game was paused as the station went to a commercial break, and I reached for the bottle again. The whiskey burned its way across my tongue, the alcohol practically scorching the back of my throat, but I didn't wince. I could feel Warren watching me from across his living room as I tipped the bottle back, and I knew he was getting ready to say something. I swallowed hard, and I set the bottle down again.

"It's got to stop, man." Warren's voice was quiet, a hushed tone that scarcely carried over the static sounds of the car insurance commercial in the background. I kept my gaze fixed blankly on the television screen. He was afraid to talk to me about the alcohol, and we both knew it. "Jason. I've never seen someone drink so much."

There was nothing for me to say. I took another lengthy drink, and when I put the bottle back down, the living lurched slightly around me. I rubbed my right eye with the heel of my hand, feeling an aching sort of buzz behind my eyelids every time I blinked. It wasn't enough, though.

Warren raised his voice a decibel higher, telling me, "Come on, Jason. You can't keep doing this, it's no good for you. You'll kill yourself at this rate."

"So?" I snapped, more harshly than I'd intended. But I didn't feel bad about it, because Warren had paled slightly and looked away when I turned my gaze toward him. I was sick of people refusing to look at me.

"I'm just saying," Warren continued quietly, "you can't keep doing this to yourself. I can't keep letting you do this to yourself."

When I drank this time, my stomach soured as the whiskey burned its way down through my chest. Feeling a sticky, uncomfortable heat in my chest, I said dryly, "Then tell me to get out. I won't stop you."

"That's not the point," he sighed exasperatedly. "You can't keep blaming yourself for what happened to Ana."

My gaze slipped from the TV screen to the bottle, seeing the colors swim through the squared glass in front of me. The white letters that made up the Jack Daniel's logo seemed to waver and shake. I told him softly under my breath, "Don't say her name. Please."

I couldn't be sure if he'd heard. Warren shook his head and set his beer down onto the coffee table, so harshly that some of the liquid sloshed up and ran down the outside of the curved glass. He stood abruptly, but I didn't look up. "Give me the bottle."

"Fuck you," I said. I sloppily grabbed for the whiskey before he could take it from me, standing so quickly that the carpet dipped under my feet. My stomach was twisting inside me, empty aside from the whiskey, and I wanted to be sick. I turned away from Warren and the stupid television game and said over my shoulder, "I'm leaving."

Warren followed me down the hallway, his sneakers squeaking against the scuffed tiled flooring. I reached for the handle of the front door, nearly falling against the cracked, cream-colored paint before me. Warren's voice had lost its frustrated tone from before, and he sounded worried as he told me, "I can't let you walk home like this."

I threw open the door. Bitterly, I said, "I'm not going home. I'll be damned if I spend another second with my parents. They won't even fucking look me in the eye."

I stumbled out onto the porch before he could stop me, staggering into the street and letting the dark night air swallow me whole.