blue ; gallavich

21

MICKEY

I hear Kev yelling my name loudly.

My thoughts are messed up in a tangled knot of confusion.

I feel myself breathing heavily and my heart pounding out of my chest, trying to break free of its barrier.

I hear Ian's name.

I think I just lost my shit.

I lunge forward, breaking free of the sea of arms trying to pull me further away, and I smash the glass over that guy's head.

I swing and my face aches as he hits me back.

I don't know who this drunk asshole is but I'm going to fucking kill him.

"It's not my fault!" I scream.

I'm not sure what's happening right now, but I'm heated and sweating like a pig.

Everyone looks as scared as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs and I don't blame them. It's been a long time since I've lashed out and gone on a rampage this violent.

I hear Ian's name again, but this time from a different fucker.

I stumble over to a rusty table and with all of my strength, which currently isn't much, I flip the table over and a pool of glass and liquor teems my feet.

I thrust my foot out at someone angrily, thrashing and screaming as who I can only guess is Kevin pulls me back, using every ounce of energy he has left.

I scream for him to get off me, that I'm going to kill that asshole who had the nerve to try me.

Honestly, I think the only reason I'm so worked up is that hearing Ian's name while having a shit ton of alcohol in my system is very triggering.

Kev says my name soothingly, but it doesn't soften the rapid speed at which my adrenaline is pumping, my veins are pulsating, my heart is beating, my fists are throbbing.

I kick the wall and it leaves another dent in my already-worn out shoes.

I need some new fucking shoes.

I walk back into the bar. I'm not sure why, but something leads me there.

Maybe it's the feeling of wanting more alcohol.

Needing more alcohol.

The point is to get rid of thoughts, feelings, remembrance. But it's not working. I still remember fucking everything.

But maybe this is something that I'm supposed to remember. Something that I can't forget, no matter how much whiskey I consume.

I grab myself another bottle of Jack Daniels, the fourth bottle I will have downed tonight.

Jack Daniels.

There's something missing. And it clicks.

"I need orange juice." I tell V, or who my blurry vision convinces me to be V.

I've already drank half of the fucking bottle.

I need help.

I look at the orange juice. The Jack Daniels looks lonely without it.

Jack Daniels is lonely without his orange juice.

I want FireCrotch.

I don't care if he's laying in bed depressed or taking pictures of squirrels at 3 A.M. I want Carrot Top. Give me RedHead.