Page 19 of Give Me Perfect Love

What bar still has one of those, anyway?

Heads turn my way, but I avert their eyes, thankful this place is dark, save for the lights above the tables.

I slide onto the barstool and a man with a large belly and a trucker’s hat walks up to me.

“What’ll ya have?” he asks, putting a napkin in front of me.

“Double shot of vodka and a beer.”

He raises a brow but doesn’t question me literally. I bring my hands to my head and slide my beanie off with one as I leave my forehead resting against my palm. My hands still quiver, and my thoughts run crazy.

My chest feels crushed, and my heart is unmotivated to keep going.

Years have not healed me.

They’ve only given me distance from the truth of my childhood.

Claire was right. My sweet best friend was right when she said ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. It may help you dismiss it, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened.

The house is there; the furniture inside still resides. The smell of whiskey and vomit still bleeds from the walls.

The sounds still echo through the halls, and the pain Saw and Bethany caused reflects in my actions.

I am who I am because of them.

I am closed-off and guarded.

I’m afraid and insecure.

I am untrusting, and I may come off as hard to like because I don’t make it easy for people to get to know me.

I push them away in hopes they’ll stay there.

What a sad existence. What a waste of life and time.

My glass is placed in front of me, and I quickly down its contents, chasing it with my beer.

Wincing, I say, “Another, please.” As I cough, he eyes me skeptically. “Look, guy, I’ve had a very shitty day. Just give me the drink. I promise I won’t barf on your floor.”

My eyes are swollen from too many tears, and my throat is starting to hurt. I don’t go out of my way to prove I won’t puke on this beer belly’s cement floor, but I say it gravelly enough that it sounds convincing.

He gives me the second drink and I lift it, staring at the clear liquid like it’s the answer to all my problems.

Is this how Mary feels when she does heroin?

Does she do it so she won’t remember all the bad shit she’s done in her life?

I wonder how she is, which makes me think of Bryce. I down the glass and close my eyes, granting tears to fall down my wind-chapped cheeks.

“You okay?”

I slowly turn my head with my palm still resting against my forehead.

I look at the man sitting beside me. Thick, brown hair, matching eyes, and a concerned expression.

“No.” I bring my beer to my lips and look in front of me. There’s a mirror, and it gifts me my reflection.

Jesus.

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