Author's Note: Yay I'm actually updating on time this week! This chapter is quite long and slow moving hope that's not too much of an issue for readers. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 7: Chance cares too much and Callaway swears too much
"It's a great advantage not to drink among hard drinking people."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Chance
Boy was I lucky; it seemed as if drunk Callaway was impossibly easier to deal with than sober Callaway.
You know, other than the fact that he loses around half of his brain capacity and almost his entire ability to correctly operate his body, but at least he was a tad less judgmental and robotic.
As I led him into the dim lighting of the bathroom, Callaway made some idiotic remark about how he thought alcohol was organic.
I couldn't help but bellow in laughter.
Callaway noticed my amusement at his expense and groaned loudly.
" Sorry, but I was just thinking about how you should drink a little before we work together so we could finally be on the same level of intelligence," I joked lightly, as I helped Callaway to sit himself down on the edge of the porcelain bathtub in the back of the bathroom.
I think I might have accidentally put pressure on his hand, because once I had finished speaking and helped him down, he frowned deeply.
As Callaway inattentively examined his hand from where he was seated, I took a moment to scan my surroundings. Similar to the entirety of the house, the bathroom was huge. From my place beside the bath, I could see a full length mirror the size of a small car, not double sinks, but quadruple sinks, as well as what looked like a large painting of some old guy from the Renaissance.
Overall, the place looked pretty damn classy and in my hand-me-down jeans and secondhand sweater, I felt a little underdressed.
Is that even possible? Can a bathroom make you feel underdressed? I even felt a little intimidated by the fancy designs that the toilet adorned.
Now that was sad.
As I marveled at the furnishing, I heard the low rumbling of, "Like what you see?"
I turned back towards Callaway and slowly the pieces started coming together.
My mouth gaped even wider.
"You- this is your house? " I stared at Callaway in shock.
Callaway visibly flinched.
Based on his reaction, I quickly averted my eyes and decided not to press him for answers, as it seemed I had offended him and if possible, I wanted to stay clear of ways to get him to hate me more.
He took a moment to look down at his injured hand in an obvious way, to prompt me into looking for the all-important first aid kit.
I began rummaging through the multiple cupboards, maneuvering my way through bottles of shampoo and nail polish remover. After a few tries, I found a cupboard filled with towels, behind was a first aid kit.
I then skillfully fished into the cabinet and successfully pulled out the kit.
With the newfound box in my hands, I began looking for the tweezers that would undoubtedly be needed for Callaway's hands.
"No."
I looked up from my search to see Callaway looking directly at me.
Callaway cleared his throat, "No, this isn't my house."
I nodded slowly as I retrieved the tweezers.
"Alright, so what brings you to the party? Doesn't seem like your kind of crowd," I asked casually as I pulled out some antiseptic wipes.
"As if you know what my kind of crowd is," Callaway scoffed.
I told Callaway to hold still as I tried to mop up some of what little blood was on his hand with some paper towel.
"You didn't answer my question," I spoke seriously.
Callaway sighed deeply as I walked over to a nearby garbage can to get rid of the used paper towel.
"This might sting," I warned, as I returned with the antiseptic napkins.
I slowly began to dab at the small cuts scattered across the soft skin of with the moist napkin.
Callaway's breath hitched abruptly.
" Would you prefer a completely fictitious but morally right reason or would you prefer the unpleasant truth?" Callaway grimaced in discomfort caused by his hand as he spoke.
I smiled at him, "Both."
Callaway put on an intoxicatingly exaggerated smile, " I came to this gathering so I could encounter new companions and so I could talk to people and begin to truly get a sense of acceptance and implication in my social life."
I looked up from Callaway's hands to his face and laughed lightly; the kid could act.
"Okay, and what's the real reason?"
Callaway looked me dead in the eyes and his features morphed into a completely impassive expression.
"Alcohol."
I looked at him with a concerned look.
"What?" He asked slightly venomously.
I simply shrugged, partly because I did not wanting to cause conflict, but mostly it was about not wanting to be attacked by Callaway.
I quickly finished off what I had been doing with the antiseptics wipes.
After I was done, I took one look at all the different visible pieces of glass clearly ingrained in Callaway's skin before making a decision.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, but I don't feel really comfortable being the one to yank mini daggers out of your skin, so I think you'll have to man the tweezers on your own," I handed Callaway the tweezers. "I hope you're sober enough not to stab yourself and if it makes you feel any better, I'll hold your hand."
The smaller boy frowned at my joke and began to poke at his hand.
I watched as he attempted to pull out a small piece close to the center of his palm without much success.
I had no idea whether or not I could help him, so I decided to seat myself on the countertop of the sinks.
I watched Callaway peer down at his hand through his dark, shaggy hair. I guessed that it was pretty painful, judging by the steady stream of curses falling from his lips.
As he prodded his hand, the silence was palpable and uncomfortable. I decided to busy myself with my phone. I absentmindedly checked some social media and messed around with a few games that had been pre-downloaded, since my dad wouldn't let me waste money on "pointless" applications. While I played, I heard variations of gasps, groans and colorful language from Callaway.
After a few minutes of staring down at the small screen, my thoughts were interrupted by legitimate words.
"Um, I know this is completely unjustified, but would you be opposed to abetting me in the jettison of the final particle of glass?" Callaway spoke quickly.
I looked at him in utter confusion, " In English, please."
He sighed deeply and translated himself, " Would you mind removing the final shard of glass from my hand? It is proving difficult and I believe it would be ultimately easier if you were to do it," He asked and looked somewhat guilty.
I shut my phone and looked down into his apologetic eyes. I paused for a moment before answering.
"Fine, where is it?" I asked as I got up from my spot across the room and gestured towards his hand.
Callaway pointed meekly at the left side of his hand, near his thumb.
I sighed and apologized beforehand for any severe pain I caused.
I slowly took the tweezers out of Callaway's still shaking hands (due to his drunken state) and found out where the piece of glass was and started my work.
I placed my hand over top of Callaway's, inspecting the glass lodged into his skin; he was right, it was in pretty deep.
Before inching closer with the tweezers in my hand, I looked back up into Callaway's face, in silent reassurance.
The eyes that stared back at me were a fiery green; though burning recklessly with slight malevolence, they still provided warmth and protection, even if unintentionally.
After a moment, I slowly drew my own eyes away and began my work.
After only a minute or so, with minor grunts coming from Callaway, the small piece of glass found it's way out.
I felt a sort of sense of accomplishment for being able to help and be particularly nice.
After we finished up, Callaway bandaged up his hand with some of the stuff found in the first aid kit. When he was finished, we both looked at each other with uncertain stares, wondering what we were to do next.
" I really hope you're not left handed," I laughed lightly, in another attempt of fill the tense air.
Callaway's gaze flitted between my face and his hands for a few moments. He then proceeded to curse loudly at the vacant wall.
Well I guess that gave me the answer to my assumption.
________
Callaway
What was wrong with me?
It took a while for me to properly come to my senses, meaning, sobering up.
Not only had I acted completely inappropriately with someone I had just been more or less so acquainted with that day, but also I had been completely inebriated and had fallen on them with a glass bottle in hand. Then, to conclude my spectacle I induced him to feel guilty and obligated to aid me.
I used to think I was bad before, but now I reached a newfound level of ignominy.
Oh and I unequivocally lied to him.
Chance had in fact, correctly guessed that the house was mine, and of course, I automatically lied. Though I was not usually one to explicitly gloat about my fortunes and privileges, I was never one to go out of my way to hide it. It was odd that my first instinct was to suppress the truth. Logically, I believed the reason for it was an attempt to make certain that Chance did not feel intimidated by the wealth of my family, because that seemed what someone with actual empathy may attempt to do. But mostly, I imagined that it was in effort of trying not to alienate myself even further in my already isolated social state.
Either way, it was not my best idea, for multiple reasons.
As Chance concluded the great feat of repairing my hand (well, attempting to), he suggested we try to navigate our way towards a kitchen so I could obtain a glass of water, to somewhat bring myself to a point of sobriety.
Again, I maneuvered my way through the crashing waves of dancers quite violently, since this time, I did not having a bottle to spill on people. Chance followed close behind me, seeming thoroughly impressed by my lack of courtesy.
After what seemed like an eternity, we were finally able to reach our destination.
As I found myself in the kitchen next to Chance, my hand instinctively grabbed at the nearest body of alcoholic liquid in sight. Though as my fingers grazed the glass, I felt the force of someone grabbing onto my arm. Startled, I looked up to see Chance. As my fingers slowly wound their way around the cup, he looked at me with a severe look. I remained still for a few seconds before mumbling incoherent insults and letting go of the drink.
I then found my way towards the fridge to retrieve a water bottle; the only thing a party never runs out of.
I swiftly opened the lid and returned to my previous spot leaning against the large granite countertop. I took a few sips before looking back at Chance, who found himself to my near left.
"I suppose you need a method of returning to your place of residence then, unless you wanted to witness this party plummet down to the point of inescapable melancholy," I quickly explained to Chance.
The expression he adorned in result of my words was wholly and truly priceless. His eyebrows were raised impossibly elevated on his face, mouth fully gaped open, and eyes as wide as the unpredictable recklessness of the ocean. He quickly put his head in his hands in an obvious display of anxiousness.
"It's Monday. What time is it? I have to go to school tomorrow, well today considering how late it is. I have no idea how I'm gonna get home, my dad is probably worried and..." Chance went into a frenzy of worries and fears for what would await him the following day.
I watched him pace around the large expanse of the kitchen for a minute. He went up and down and around the island situated in the middle of the room. His steps were uncalculated and varied. I thought it odd how things so mundane as school and worrying his father had induced such panic. Quite frankly, it made me laugh.
I watched his pacing closely for a few minutes, as I absentmindedly sipped at my water. My initial amusement faded rapidly as the constant movement became tedious and inclined me to intervene.
"Cha," I smiled slightly as stood in front of him, blocking his way of any further striding. " My car is right outside the house, and I will allow you to utilize it to attend to your needs, under one condition," I looked directly into Chance's gaze.
He cocked an eyebrow at me in question.
" You need to return it to me, undamaged, tomorrow. Preferably before school ends," I feigned a smile that anybody could see through.
Chance looked down at me, seemingly puzzled.
" Wait, but don't you need to get home too?"
Shit.
"I'd be happy to drive you to wherever you have to go."
Shit.
" Just tell me the address and I'll get you there."
SHIT.
In a perfect world, this would have been the part where I came clean about the petty lie I had voiced. Though as everyone figures out sooner or later, life is never perfect.
In the real world, I simple lied. Again.
"That would be much obliged," I frowned, my expression completely contradicting my words. "My address is 12 Smith Street," my mouth compulsively spat out the first number and street I could recollect.
Chance smiled down at me and my own frown deepened, "Perfect."
That was how I found myself uncomfortably sat in the passenger seat with Chance singlehandedly trying to locate "my house". Obviously, I was of no help, taking into consideration that I myself had no concept of where the house could be found.
As I wallowed in self-pity, Chance continued to drive aimlessly through a foreign neighborhood at night in search of a fictitious address.
Surprisingly, with the help of Google maps, eventually he was capable of discovering a road by the name of 'Smith' and then pinpointing a house embellished with a number '12'. I was impressed.
Chance spoke futile compliments in regard the state of the building that I had claimed as my own in an attempt to end the night on a high note.
'It's....quaint,' he joked as I let myself out of the car.
I simply nodded and reminded him to return the car to me as soon as was feasible.
Chance then began to drive away to what I knew was the direction towards his house.
I stood at the dark street corner as I watched the image of my car slowly fade into the distance as Chance turned a corner.
As I stared down the road trying to gage where I was, I palmed at the pocket of my jeans, trying to locate my phone, for I needed to call my brother to get me the hell home.
I felt around my front and back pockets for a few moments with no luck. I then started looking in various other places such as my shoes, sweater and underwear, because who knows where a drunk Callaway would have put his cellular device.
I had looked everywhere where the device may have fit, but found nothing.
I thought for a few moments about where my phone would be, until a realization dawned upon me: I had forgotten my phone at the party.
With my fortune, I'm sure the girl I had spilled my beverage on had probably jacked it from me.
I cursed loudly and then kicked at the snow at my feet.
I didn't even know where I was; let alone could I fathom a possible route to return home.
All I wanted to do at that moment was yell at someone or even something. I contemplated yelling at the house Chance had dropped me off at, but then opted not to; it would take more effort than it was worth.
I had to admit, when provoked, which happened more often than I would prefer to admit to, I was a "little ball of rage", as my mother liked to describe me.
Well this "little ball of rage" was going to have to trek home in complete ignorance of where to go in the winter, armed entirely of nothing but a jacket and a thin scarf. In this temperature, my injured hand was most likely going to freeze and then proceed to fall off.
The situation was made worse by what little alcohol was still left in my body.
Fuck Chance for having made me drink that water.
Fuck me for falling on Chance.
Fuck Chance for even showing up to my house unannounced in the first place.
But most of all: Fuck my brother for having a party.
With anger slowly growing inside me, I decide to go down the street to my left, because like that one nonsensical and idiotic post on tumblr had said, "When nothing goes right, go left."
I assure you, nothing that night was going right.
Then when I had taken not even three steps, the sky decided to start spitting out dry semen at me, also known as the terrible natural phenomenon titled "snow".
I'm way too sober for this shit.