Sticks

Chapter 4. K

"I miss when you didn't drink" Dean tells me as he lays upside down on my bed. His head is closer to my feet which makes me hope they don't smell but it also makes me want to hit his face with them.

"I thought we finished talking about this" I say. I thought we were done. I hoped we were done. He isn't supposed to worry about me.

"Robot"- we both say at the same time. He says it accusingly and I say it because I hear it from him, my mom said it, everyone says it when I act emotionless in serious situations.

I really just wish I could explain the severe discomfort that real emotion causes me.

Like when I heard my mom has cancer, for instance, I couldn't find an ounce of sadness or sympathy in me. I couldn't figure what to say either when Dean told me him and his first girlfriend broke up. I didn't know how to comfort Mare when her dog died.

I felt for them all. I understood they were sad and it made me upset. It didn't make me sad or teary, it only made me upset.

Knowing that there is anything that can cause such horrible pain in the people I care about(that's another emotion I can do) is enough to make me start punching. Logically I know words outweigh violence. But I spite the fact that hitting things releases everything. It gets everything that I should be able to get out with words but can't because of all the reasons I already gave. I hold onto this hope that someday I will find someone, something, some place that fixes me.

I do want to be fixed. But sometimes I think not being emotional keeps me from being vulnerable.
I believe being vulnerable is a sore side effect of feeling things.

Lame as excuse Kiara.

Dean lifts his arms behind him, propping himself up now so he can look at me. He tilts his head to the side like he does when he examines me. I shoot him a smile that earns a groan of disapproval. He's still a little drunk but neither of us are too gone. Every part of me is itching for alcohol. I need to avoid him talking by doing something.

I start picking at my nail polish to resist temptation. I do that a lot according to people. I paint my nails at least twice a day at this point. The satisfaction I get from scratching every last bit off is the only substitute I can find for drinking nowadays. The littlest thing, also a very expensive thing because of nail polish prices, is the only thing keeping me sane.

It does a crappy job though because it never does enough. It just holds me over in school.

The noise of my nails hitting the edges of the polish is irritating me but I can't stop. I need a release.
I need to reapply my nail polish too, but that's less important.

"Go drink" Dean mutters in a disgruntled tone. He knows I want to. He knows my tells and he knows my temptations.
I hate that he's upset. He's a happy guy, he doesn't get mad. I furrow my eyebrows because I made him upset and I hate it, like I've said.
I also hate how well he knows me.

I prop myself up to mirror Dean and glare at him.
"No" I say sternly. I want him to know I'm serious about this. I'm not going to stop drinking but I can withhold from what I want. Well, what I need, but I can't say that to his face.

His lips turn down and his face gets hard. I roll my eyes without thinking and his lips gape slightly, releasing a small scoff , as if he can't believe I would do such a thing. Most times that noise coming from him is just a joke. I don't think he is in a very joking mood right now.

I push myself further back on the bed until my back connects the with the wall. I don't know how well I could keep myself up right now given how limp and sore my arms are. I tip my head back until my hairs connect with the cold of my grey wall. With closed eyes I try to find a peaceful thought. None of my thought are very peaceful.