Street Youth Rising ~Septiplier~

Drunken Heartbreak

-- Jack --

I lay in silence with my eyes shut. Darkness and sleep was all I wanted as I lay there facing the back of the couch. The couch in the man cave was soft, offering only the slightest form of comfort as I dwelled over my dear love, Mark.

He had been on my lonely mind ever since he left. I fondly remembered last night, shuddering every single time I thought about him whispering to me in the dark. How the moonlight from my window seemed to make his skin glow. Not only did I remember that, I remembered adorable things about him too. When he first got the guts to kiss me and how excited he was afterwards. How it felt just to be in his arms, the light from my TV illuminating us as I battled the colossus. Every little detail - nothing was ever forgotten.

After I was picked up off the sidewalk and brought in from the freezing rain, my brother threw me into a warm shower. Upset, tired, and inwardly aching, I had sobbed. He had to practically ignored my cries about not wanting to exist without Mark.

"Malcolm, he's not just some random fuck fling. He's a piece of me!" I had begged of my brother to understand.

"Just get a shower, Jack," he had told me, "If Mark loves you like he claims, he'll be back."

So now I lay here in my man cave, dwelling on what could have been done different.

Could I have stopped him? Reached for him one last time? Begged him to stay?

Pfft - Please. If I hardly had the strength to be angry and lift weights, I didn't have the strength to pick myself up and reach out to him one last time. If I had though, would he have stayed with me?

My thoughts were interrupted when the door to the basement opened and I heard soft steps coming down the stairs. From the sounds of the stepping patterns, there were two people.

"He's completely heartbroken!" Hannah softly exclaimed, voice barely above a whisper.

"He's a big boy, he'll eventually move on from Mark to the next guy. It's what he does." Malcolm countered, voice at normal level. He was clearly uncaring of the fact that I was (pretend) sleeping.

"I don' think so." She prodded gently, "he's been sleepin' all day."

"Hannah, honestly. He's a McLoughlin. He's got tough skin, jus' as tough as any Irish child who grew up in a household of over seven." Malcolm claimed proudly.

"If he weren't upset, would he be sleepin' from dawn to dusk? Would he have bawled like an infant the moment we brought him in? He's not even tryin' to hide the liquor bottles in here." Hannah pointed out.

Oh yeah, I forgot that I had drank a few bottles of whiskey to kill the pain. Maybe that's what happens when I'm drunk. Am I really that forgetful? If I'm that forgetful, why can't I forget him? I want to, but at the same time, I want to remember every last little detail. His eyes, his smile, the feel of his lips, the softness of his heartbeat, the way his hands washed over me when he pulled me closer, the perfect color of his skin. Every. Little. God damn detail of him was tattooed on my brain and my heart no matter how badly I wanted to forget and would always be there for how greatly I wanted to remember.

And they say whiskey was supposed to kill the memory of heartbreak. Whoever said that was a liar.

"All Irishman drink. From age 14, we all proudly chug whiskey with no problem!" Malcolm said.

"He's hurt and you don't like seeing your baby brother like that therefore you'd rather be in denial than accept he's having a hard time living without him!" Hannah finally snapped, stomping upstairs and slamming the door.