A Nightmare's Fate

A Drunken Mistake

Chapter Eight: A Drunken Mistake

Liquor: the word is like a bomb; the trigger word to those who crave it, who need it to survive their pathetic lives, and who wants it. For me, I need it to survive this bomb I'm thrown to from God. I need it like a human needs water; throat drying up and clenching from thirst. I don't crave it nor do I want it, but needing the alcohol to rest inside my stomach and give my brain a way to hide the memories and agony Kenton left behind for me, to dwell on hatred and sobbing my life away. It's his bomb to me.

            I know I shouldn't drink, I know better. But the savoring flavor tingles upon my taste-buds and leaves my lips dry once swallowed, so my mouth craves more and more fluids and my brain won't allow my hands to come to a halt.

            I sit on the kitchen floor, a bottle of whiskey in my hand's grasp. My brain forces my mouth to open as the top of the bottle leans in closer to kiss my lips, liquid rushing out of the flask. My knees are up to my abdominal, my arms wrapped around them with the whiskey in hand. My eyes must be red from all of the sobbing I've been doing, my nose puffy as well with my cheeks flushed.

            I close my eyes while taking another sip. I pay attention to my heart; its beat calm and steady, but after a few moments, I feel the rhythm begin to become rapid. Its pumps go faster and faster, and I get dizzy. I feel like I'm spinning around, twirling while looking at the ceiling. I open my eyes.

            Honestly, I have no idea what to do with life anymore. I'd rather sit here and drink away my sorrows than face all of my fears by trying to forget him and move on. I think the floor is where I belong, with my bottle as my friend—my only friend.

            Sure, Periwinkle, Jessie, and Freddy are my friends, but they're trying to put me in a place where Kenton wouldn't want. I mean, he hates dating services as much as I do, and they know that! But maybe it is for the best? Ugh, I don't know. Hopefully my next date isn't so bad. And it's . . . tonight! Oh crap!

            I clumsily stand up, the oven door-handle supporting my weight. I walk across the kitchen almost falling down a few times from the air. Finally at the end of the room, I hold onto the wall, trying not trip over anything or nothing from my drunken self. I balance myself from standing up and walk with nothing maintaining me. After the last step, I fall onto the stairs and laugh. I have no idea why I'm laughing, but I guess my brain is signaling my stomach to giggle from tripping on nothing and slamming my body onto a carpeted step.

I put my palms on the stair and force my muscles to pick my weight up. Once I do, I take small paces up the flight of steps and hold onto the railing for my full support.

            Leaning against the wall, I slide myself into my bedroom and fall onto the bed. My eyelids want to close, but I force them to keep open. Taking a deep breath, I stand up again, almost falling back down, but to prevent it, I sit on the bed once more. I put my hand up to my head as it throbs from the alcohol, taking effect on being drunk.

            Not caring about the liquor consuming my brain and rushing all over my body to become weak, I coerce myself to pull the drawer of clothes out from the bureau. With one hand, I'm leaning against the dresser; with the other, I'm looking for an outfit to wear to the dinner with whatever his name is. Obviously, with what Skylar told me two weeks ago, they don't tell the women the men's name. It's just the men that know the names of the women, which makes me even more frustrated since that is nothing but bullshit. It doesn't even make sense about that, I wonder if the people who made the dumb dating thing even know what they're doing.