This Is England » Freddie Highmore

58.

    I FELT numb. Every ounce of my body was now numbing to a toll. My best friend that I had known since primary school, had passed away yesterday. He was shot. Someone gunned him down for no reason.

I completely hated myself. If I hadn't been in the spur of the moment, I would have been there to save him. Keep him away from whoever tried to hurt him.

But I wasn't. I was in New York City, finding a reason to escape.

I feel horrible for how I'm treating Amelia, but she doesn't understand what I'm going through. She doesn't know what it's like to live with fatal memories of the past. She doesn't know half of my story.

"You hungry?" Amelia asked for the third time today in the past few hours. I shook my head, not saying a word. I got up from the couch, passed by her, and went to my liquor cabinet to grab a bottle of whiskey.

I returned back to the couch, bringing the bottle to my lips and then proceeded to turn the television channel to something else. Something that didn't involve death.

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             Every channel I surfed, there was something or someone being murdered. After awhile, I finally gave up and drank the bottle and let myself sink into the depths of depression. I knew that Amelia was there in the room, but I couldn't bring it to myself to talk to her.

I'm just hoping she'll understand.

"Freddie?" I hear Amelia call from the dining table. I didn't respond. The only response I could think of was to break every wall of my apartment.

"Freddie!" I snap out of my trance and stared back at the woman standing in front of me. I rolled my eyes, not wanting to talk to her.

"Yes, Amelia?" I asked flatly. Amelia crossed her arms over her chest, her jaw stern. If I wasn't a depressed prick I probably would have fucked her by now. She looked so hot standing there, all frustrated.

"I understand what you're going through," she said. "but you can't just ignore me! Especially when I'm trying to help you!"

And the thought of me fucking Amelia went away just like that. I wasn't in the mood to talk about how I felt, and I especially wasn't in the mood to snap at her. So, like a good gentleman, I grabbed a hold of the bottle I'd been drinking and took a swig; narrowing my eyes at her as I drank.

I swallowed the bitter taste of the beverage and smirked. "Watch me."

With that, Amelia took her purse and walked out, saying only, "You're unbelievable!" and then the door slammed shut.

As much as I wanted to tell Amelia stories about Max, I couldn't bring it to myself to do so. I wasn't wanting to deal with anyone. So, what did I do to ease the urge to discuss my pain?

I shared it with a bottle of whiskey. . .

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