Fuck.
That’s my motto this weekend, my goddamn mantra. Fuck everything. Fuck life. Fuck resolutions and decisions and bright ideas that come to nothing. I’m ready to pack it all up and leave this goddamn place where I wasn’t supposed to return anyway.
Fuck it all.
I knock down my shot of tequila—my tenth? Twentieth? Thirtieth? I don’t really know, and I don’t really care. All I want is to numb my mind, wash the thoughts out and crunch them under my boot.
Is this what you want? What you came back for?
Dammit. I need more tequila; what I’ve had obviously isn’t enough. I raise my empty shot glass and shake it at the bartender.
The room tilts, and I slam my glass down, spreading my arms on top of the bar not to fall off my stool. Whoa.
The bartender’s frowning at me. He grabs a towel and comes toward me, muttering under his breath. What’s his fucking problem?
“More tequila,” I slur. Where’s my glass? I fumble for it on the bar, my eyes half-closed against the glare of the overhead lights.
“Hey, hey.” The bartender grabs my hand and lifts it. “You’ve had enough. Here.” He wraps my hand in the towel.
It’s only then I see the shards of the glass I smashed on the counter and smell the metallic tang of blood; can practically taste it on my tongue.
The bar dissolves around me; I’m back in the basement, leaning against the wall, cable ties digging into my wrists, the stench o
f mold and urine overlaid with the sharp smell of spilled blood filling my senses. It’s dark and cold, and everything hurts. Open wounds on my chest burn like fire, and my ribs … Christ, my ribs are killing me with every breath I draw.
Shit.
I blink hard to bring the bar back into focus. Not the basement. I’m not there.
Fuck. Pushing back, I stagger to my feet and try to locate the bathroom. The room spins. I head toward a door, and I faintly hear behind me the bartender talking. My stomach roils, and I push the door open.
Cold air hits my face, clearing my eyes for a brief moment—I’m outside, on the street—and then I brace myself with a hand on the brick wall and throw up. Acid burns my throat as I cough and spit.
Hands fall on my shoulders, and I twist and shove whoever decided coming close to me right now is a good idea. I draw back my fist. I’ll show the guy how stupid he is, thinking he can touch me.
“Just making sure you’re okay,” the bartender says. “You left the towel.” He passes me the bloodied piece of cloth.
Blood drips from my hand. I stare at the cuts in my palm. Remember more blood and pain.
The bartender clears his throat, snapping my attention back to him. “Better get that checked. You don’t wanna leave shards of glass inside. Do you have someone to drive you home? Shall I call you a cab?”
Clenching my jaw, I turn and go. I don’t need anything or anyone. I’m perfectly fine on my own.
If I don’t fall on my face and crack my skull—which would suck balls, especially after remembering what broken bones feel like. So I hug the wall and put one foot in front of the other, carefully, swallowing bile as the sidewalk sways in my eyes.
Motherfucking hell.
Even if I wanted to call someone to come and pick me up—which I don’t, absolutely fucking not, because I’m just fine on my own—I wouldn’t have anyone.
Brilliant move, Tyler. If you die here, nobody will even know where to find the body.
The truth finally hits me. I slide down the wall, right there on the sidewalk, and lean my head back. I close my eyes and wonder if anyone will notice if I disappear into nothingness once more.
***
After a while, a police car passes by where I lie passed out on the concrete. The cops shake me awake to ask if I have someone to call. I give them the finger. So they give me a ride to my apartment.
The police. The system. Helping me out. I fall on the bed laughing so hard I almost puke again.