The Sound of Silence: A Dream Daddy story

Chapter Eight

The rest of your day passed in a blur of vodka, frozen pizza, and tears. You didn't bother counting drinks, didn't bother mixing half of them, just drank until you'd stopped crying and shaking and then drank some more.

You had known the barbecue would be a bad idea. You hadn't felt ready or capable of handling such a crowd. But even you hadn't been able to predict that someone would shove a baby girl into your arms, bringing all the painful memories you didn't want to think about crashing back in a thunderstorm of emotion.

You never should have gone.

The clock you'd bought and hung in the kitchen ticked the hours away slowly--measuring your life in shots--as you lay on the couch staring at nothing. Not like you had a tv to watch, and somehow reading didn't sound all that appealing. You didn't have the attention span for it. You could barely keep your own thoughts in your hole-filled mind, let alone the written thoughts of someone else.

It grew dark--not that you really noticed with the curtains drawn--and the wall clock ticked past 9pm. 11pm. 2am. You moved only to pour more drinks, and occasionally to flop to the floor and stare at the carpet, the only thing you could see from that angle.

Once, you thought you heard someone knocking at the front door, but you ignored it. You didn't want to face anyone right now. Not after making such a fool of yourself.

By 2am, you were out of vodka and blinking blearily in the overhead light. Did you dare step outside to find a liquor store? Did you want more booze, or did you want to sleep?

Sleep would invite dreams.

A shudder crawled down your spine, and you hefted yourself to your feet, swaying wearily and blinking. You rubbed your eyes, wondering if you looked as rough as you felt. Probably. You didn't care. You barely even bothered to throw on a pair of shoes before you went outside.

It was dark outside, and quiet, and peaceful. Such a heavy contrast to what was going on inside. Throwing your head back as you hit the sidewalk, you filled your lungs with the sweet smell of summer night air and peered up at the stars.

No one else was awake or out. No one else existed in the world.

Or maybe you didn't exist.

That was an oddly comforting thought. You were a ghost, flitting through the night-darkened streets as a phantom. A phantom in pursuit of booze.

You didn't even know where a liquor store was.

You walked for close to ten minutes, the cool air and night breeze soothing your stiff muscles and your tired face. The walking seemed to help, getting your blood moving and the alcohol circulating more quickly. You were nearly sobering up.

That wouldn't do.

But no bartender in their right mind would serve you, so you had to find the liquor store.

By some miracle, or by sheer, dumb luck, you found your way to the empty parking lot and glowing windows of a liquor store several minutes later. Drawn to the light, you approached and stepped inside. You barely noticed the clerk, bee-lining right for the shelf of vodka. Your favored brand was on sale.

You whispered a silent thanks to the patron saint of vodka, snagging a bottle and immediately heading toward the bored clerk.

He scanned the bottle and read your price from the computer in a bored drawl. You patted your pockets. You searched both your empty hands. You checked the lower pockets in your cargo shorts that you never carried anything in.