Proxy [l.h]

12. Drinking Problems and Confessions

«DAY 8 cont.»

Lissa

The entire night goes by in uncomfortable silence. I'd dragged myself upstairs after the episode with Michael, knowing I'll see him again in less than 24 hours. I still have so many questions for him, but tell myself at least to wait until Luke gets home.

What did Michael know about Jane and how did he know she was in love with someone else? 

I touch the folded piece of paper the nurse gave me in the bottom of my pocket. Wondering. Wondering how all of this comes together. And how Luke's doing behind the door of our hotel room.

Then, just as if my pleas were heard, I suddenly hear a small click in the door. Getting to my feet in a hurry, I hesitantly turn the knob to see if it's open. It is.

But by the time I walked in, Luke had already receded back into his bed.

Across from the door, he is an unmoving figure under the sheets. I figure now it's best to go to sleep...until he feels decent enough to speak to me.

Quickly throwing on a sweater and brushing my teeth, I pass out almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

+

I wake up in the middle of the night to Luke slamming open and closing the fridge door. My eyes open to see him walking back to the bed, holding onto random objects to keep his balance. He yelps as he spills some of the vodka in his hand on the pristine carpet beneath our feet, and I slip off the bed in surprise.

He's already downed about two bottles, and before I can stop him, and after checking that there's nothing left at the bottom of the bottle he just spilled, he rushes to the fridge for more. I don't know who thought alcohol would be a good idea to give as a hotel 'welcome package'.

"Luke," I call after him, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. What time was it? Two o clock? Five? "Luke, come back to sleep."

"No!" Luke replies childishly from the fridge, and then I hear the clanking of more bottles.

"Oh god," I hear him moan suddenly, and then he slams the bottles down on the counter and runs to the bathroom, I after him. I find him crouched over the toilet, retching, sounding so pained that I cringe. But I help him to his knees and pat his back as he empties the rest of his stomach into the bowl.

When Luke is done, he tries to drunkenly wipe his mouth with his sleeve. I catch him just in time, dabbing around his mouth with toilet paper and flushing it down with the rest of the contents in the bowl.

I help Luke up again carefully, afraid he might vomit again. It disgusts me how weak the alcohol makes him. And it disgusts me how much he and the band drinks on a daily basis. Sometimes I get a whiff of it on their clothes or on their breath when they're near. But now Luke smells sour, like last night's dinner and vodka.

Stumbling to his feet and resting one side of his body against mine, he looks in the mirror.

I see a pale-faced boy with hollow eyes, sunken cheeks and messy hair. His mouth is ajar as he speaks.

"I need to shave!" Luke blurts, pointing at his reflection. As he pointed out, the stubble on his chin looks especially dark tonight.