Pick Your Poison

Chapter 2

This story is not dead and neither am I! Wow I am on fire this week I've managed to update all my fanfics! *pats own back* but really you have to give me a little credit these are LONG chapters and they take forever to write.

If you're still interested in this story, then god bless your precious soul. I had such a hard time debating whether I should drop it but I just couldn't. I personally loved the idea and it was my duty to continue it.

For this story, there will be time jumps between chapters. All in Derek's POV but one will be in 2005 and the other 2017! The dates will be marked at the top of each chapter! Remember to review this for me, I'm a review slut and I can't get enough!

Enough of my rambling, here's chapter 2!

January 16, 2017

Another tear drop of water plunges against the stainless steel of his kitchen sink. It's consecutive and the drips are even, plopping in harmony with the pounding storm outside of his home. Though the leaky sink is far more than annoying and is somewhat of a pain in his ass, he can't find the courage or will for that matter to pull himself up and twist the knob slightly right to end the harmless patter. Besides, it's an easy distraction and anything ripping his attention from the papers sprawled over the wooden table were a godsend in his book.

'Alcoholics Anonymous' are the words his cerulean orbs scan over for what seems to be the ten-millionth time that evening. Though, the words in big, bold, times new roman font, aren't the things making his brain complete and utter mush. It's the tiny words and sentences lined evenly across the paper that sends him into a flurry of nausea and gut curdling pain. "Twelve years." He mutters, exerting a strenuous breath. His lungs inflate and deflate slowly, he believes slow intakes of oxygen could potentially calm his frantic nerves, though it doesn't seem to be doing the trick. "Twelve fucking years." His tone grows in hatred, rises a few octaves at that.

His fingers grip the edge of his kitchen table, turning his knuckles a shade of pasty white. His teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip, the color coinciding with his hand. He tries incredibly hard to keep the emotions deep inside his chamber of sadness from spilling upward. He truly does. Yet the moment hot tears rim the lids of his eyes, the ones he'd been so eagerly trying to suppress, bubble upward and cascade down his clammy cheeks.

His face radiated warmth, his body shuddered while chills trickled along his spine like a pitcher of ice water to the lap. He'd managed to rid this memory from his subconscious for a total of a six months, as in the last twelve years it had come into his brain more than once. Flashes of golden tresses zoom through his thinking chamber in record time, poof, poof. His hands pushed the sheets of discarded papers to the side of the table. His chair squawks against the floorboards, scratch, scratch.

Her. God damnit, her. Sometimes he wonders if she's out there, knowingly haunting him just for the sake of it all. It sure felt like it. Moments such as these he wishes to every god up in there in the heavens that he hadn't waltzed into that god damned gymnasium all those years prior. Though he's sure he'd most certainly be dead as a door nail by this point. Albeit, some part of his sick, twisty mind wonders if being placed out of his misery would be easier than living in a constant, lonesome pain. His eyes flicker back to the eating area, his stomach twisting as he reminisces momentarily.

'Shepherd, Derek' is the name nearly printed near the top of the torn envelope. He wishes he were anyone but himself right now. Which in fact only brings him a cluster more of hot tears, due to the reasoning behind everything. How on earth could they expect him to commit to the words typed across the white sheets of printer paper?