Wood: A True Lover's Story

Chapter Twenty-Three

Wood

Finally, he’s gone. Wood no longer cared about his parents and the trash they’d thrown at him. He wanted to hate Mr. Dulenaka, but anytime he tried to curse the man, all he heard were his sobs for his wife. Wood had no right to feel any certain way about him. He had no right to hate his victims in return. He didn’t react when he heard Trent slam the back door hard enough to rock the entire trailer. Damn brat. Wood stared at the mostly empty bottle wondering why he hadn’t turned to alcohol before. Everyone called him an alcoholic anyway, so he should probably go ahead and play the part.

When he came home to a dark empty house that night, he struggled so hard to breathe he thought he’d pass out, as if he wasn’t deserving of the oxygen he was inhaling. But after five shots of the vodka, a pleasant buzz began to work its way through his body until soon he felt nothing, just mind-numbing bliss. As he went through the dozens of envelopes, he started to get pissed the more he read. Why had he been so weak and desperate in the beginning? Begging for his mom and dad to come see him, pleading with them to forgive him. Now he knew his words had fallen on deaf ears. He should’ve felt comforted that they hadn’t read his letters, laughed, and never responded. Wood chugged and let the second bottle of whiskey take the rest of the pain away.

Wood was trying to read a Christmas card he’d drawn for his mother his third year in. It was hard to make out the words through his blurred vision as the letters and images began to run together. Wood traced the petals of the bright red poinsettias with his fingertips, remembering how she’d decorate the house with them every season. He’d drawn her a picture every holiday, but he knew Easter was always her favorite. He’d spent weeks drawing those angels in heaven. The guys in prison had tried to convince him that family was overrated, but he hadn’t listened. Instead he’d fallen for that ridiculousness called hope. As he tossed in a few more letters, another loud bang from inside the trailer made him jump.

What is he doing in there? Wood tried to stand but realized his legs weren’t cooperating. It was as if he had no control over his body and something else had taken over. Wood braced his elbows on his forearms and rocked forward. He almost laughed at the absurdity, the hypocrisy of what he was doing. All the preaching he’d done to Bishop about staying focused and strong… now look at him. He didn’t bother to turn around when the back door burst open again and Trent’s heavy footsteps got louder the closer he got. Wood could barely keep his lids open, so he only saw the blur of a body standing in front of him.

“Here! Drink this. It’s that nasty coffee you have every morning.” Trent shoved him in his shoulder, and Wood swayed and started to tip, but somehow he was righted before he hit the ground. “Goddamnit! You just made me spill half of it.”

“Go away,” Wood mumbled, or at least that’s what he thought he said.

“Wood. It’s been hours. Come inside. I’m not saying it again. I’m fuckin’ tired—I’ve been up since five this morning, and I worked all day. I’m ready to lock up and go to bed.” Trent had an angry grip on his shoulders, but Wood could barely feel his touch. He’d wanted Trent’s hands on him, craved it, but his body was too dulled to feel them. “Come on! You can finish your pity party inside.”

Wood struggled when Trent tried to lift him. “Get off me.” he slurred embarrassingly.

“Motherfucker!” Trent shouted and hurled the coffee mug into the fence behind him. Wood didn’t flinch when pieces of ceramic and splatters of hot liquid hit the back of his head. “I said come on!”

Trent was standing over him, and it took an eternity for Wood to lift his head high enough to meet his roommate’s gaze. There were three sets of eyes frowning back at him, so he focused on the one in the middle. “I’m an alcoholic, Trent. There. You wanted to know who I am. And why I was in prison so damn long.” The anger and disgust he felt about himself was beginning to seep back into his spirit, trying to make him feel the pain, so he grabbed the bottle and managed to take half a chug before it was ripped from his hands. His brain was processing too slowly to follow what was happening, but the loud crash of glass breaking somewhere near him told him he was done drowning his problems. That was his last bottle.