Pick Your Poison

Chapter 1

January 6th, 2005

The pads of his fingertips rub the worn leather steering wheel of his beat up 2003 Land Rover. The sky is murky, a swirl of dark clouds coinciding with an overcast of gloom. Salty droplets of rainwater sprinkle his windshield, plop, plop. His mind is swimming, a pile of mushy jello seeming to replace what was once his brain. He's so hammered. He wonders how he's managed to make it here; in fact he's curious as to how he's still not drunk from the night before. He's thankful he hasn't reached the point of nausea, though he's certain it won't be long before his gut is roiling like a washer on spin cycle.

He proceeds to think on the bright side; he's endured worse hangovers. Thoughts of the blowout he threw a few months back comes to mind. Snickers fill the cabin of the car, though he's not sure why he's laughing. In truth he doesn't remember most of the party besides the booze and some blonde with beach balls for breasts, shoving her hand down his crotch. The chortles help him nonetheless. He can feel his clenched muscles releasing the dissonance they'd held captive since the previous night. Why is he doing this? There were a million and one reasons he had to quit, to reignite the engine of his SUV, to drive down the opposite road and never look back. It all seemed so much easier. As unfortunate as it seemed, his one reason seemed to outweigh the others. Nothing in life ever comes easily.

His hand curls around the key, keeping his engine humming, out of the ignition. The warm gusts of air blowing from the vent halts abruptly and the rumbling melody of his car hushes to an eerie quiet. His forehead meets the torn black leather of his steering wheel. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, his mantra.

He doesn't bother shielding his ravenous dark mane from the brewing storm above his head, he simply locks the vehicle and trudges toward the gymnasium. His hands scrunch inside the pockets of his leather jacket, beads of water cascading down his forehead. His heart thumps like a base drum on steroids, pulse, pulse, pulse, he can feel his blood drifting cold once his feet cross the threshold.

His cheeks are flushed with the exact hue decorating the ball of his crooked nose. Goosebumps brush his pasty skin as heat radiates his flesh. He doesn't remember a time he'd felt so useless, so helpless. Almost as if he were less of a man, shaving bits and pieces of his manhood, inch by inch as his feet trailed him along the empty corridor.

A glimmer of yellow catches his attention, his light at the end of the tunnel, he presumes. His hand bunches the crinkled paper buried deep within his coat pocket. Turn around, his conscious chirps, Its so much easier to leave. Again. Go have a drink. His brain and heart have an imaginary tug-of-war, he decides to wait and see who wins the latter. His heart seems to be persuasive this morning, stupid feelings. He wants to do this. Though truthfully, he needs to do this. Not just for Addison, the woman he intends to marry, but for himself. For his career. For his life. It's important he at least tries, trying is better than not trying at all. He'd be an even bigger coward to give up so easily. In fact he would contradict the meaning behind his profession, save lives, don't destroy them.

Forget his manhood, forget his pride, forget the overwhelming embarrassment hopping up and down his spine like a rabbit on a pogo stick. So he does just that, dropping everything he'd tried so hard to maintain, into his mental waste basket. The gymnasium lights blind him, all of them a scorching sun, disintegrating his corneas. Mentally he knows the lights aren't that vivid. He has a hangover. His vision replenishes itself, growing accustomed to the light source. A circle of plastic chairs is centered in the gym. A slew of people filling them awkwardly; some chewing hair, others biting nails. Is that who he was? A member of 'Freak Village?'