Concerning Chance ✔

TWENTY

The evening cooled quickly, and neither Max nor I were really dressed for staying out all night, so we reluctantly parted ways and came home around midnight.

Once I explained to my parents that I'd been with Max, they were completely fine with me having stayed out late. As much as they think Chance is trouble, they think Max is a good kid who can do no wrong — except not be the perfect son, in his dad's eyes.

Despite having had such a calm, unpressured evening with Max, my sleep's plagued with guilt. It infiltrates my heart and plays mournful melodies on my heartstrings.

When I'm with Max, I betray Chance — that's the thought that whirls around my mind in an endless blender, mushing up all my emotions into sickening inconsequentiality.

I can't decide who matters more: Chance or Max. Or maybe I'm the inconsequential one, and I really did drive Chance away.

Fucking hell.

I shake myself awake more than once in the night before I entirely give up the prospect of rest. The nightmares are the same; watching Chance fall off that fucking waterfall on purpose. Then it switches and Max is the one falling. And every time it's all my fucking fault; because I chased Chance away, and surely, I'd end up chasing Max away too if I continued whatever this is between me and him.

Groaning as I rest my groggy forehead against my palms, I decide there's only one way to numb the pain tearing me apart. Only one way to fall into oblivion, even if it's for a little while.

I stick to the walls, where the carpet meets the skirting boards to avoid any creaks in the floor. I slip downstairs quietly, avoiding the creaky step. The last thing my parents need right now is to witness me sneaking downstairs to numb my fucked-up feelings.

This is sad as fuck, I think as I reach into the back of a cupboard where I know my dad's favourite Christmas drink resides. My fingers close around the bottle's neck, and I lift it to inspect it under the bright glow of the streetlamp through the kitchen's blinds.

Glayva; it's a sweet, tangy, whisky-based liqueur that's pretty strong.

I tried some last Christmas with Dad, just a little evening tipple. I mean, I only had a splash and there were at least six ice cubes in my glass to water it down.

There's no way I'm trying to quietly get ice cubes or a glass out at 3 in the morning, so I take the bottle back up to my room.

It stings the back of my throat at the first sip, but I squeeze my eyes shut and take another mouthful. The second time, I let it rest in my mouth, adjusting to the sharp, warming sensation it causes to flood through my mouth and my face.

"Fuck," I murmur after my fifth sip, my head's already going cloudy, and it feels so fucking good not to be overthinking every single second.

I lie on top of my bedcovers, my back propped up against the headrest and my bottle clutched in my right hand.

For the first time in my life, I enjoy the blurriness that accompanies alcohol. I don't care anymore. I don't care about Max, and I don't care what Chance would think of me.

So, I keep drinking. Because it feels right; it feels so fucking good to be free of my insecurities, even just for now.

The sweet, orangey liqueur lulls me back towards sleep, though this time, I know it's going to be free of all dreams.

Before I drift off, I remember to screw back on the top and stash it under my bed. I have a strong feeling, which is hard to fathom through this relaxing fog, that I'm gonna be needing more of that stuff tomorrow.