Page 71 of His Every Move

This was so fucked. I always considered myself a clean person, never once letting my space get this rotted. I didn’t even realize how bad things were spiraling.

“Fuck.”

I winced as I put my hands under the warm running water. I gently washed away most of the blood. The cuts were all along the tops of my hands, mostly the knuckles. They were long and sharp, with a couple of them feeling pretty deep. There was one bad cut by my thumb that still bled. A spiral of dark red crimson slipped down the drain, mimicking the way my life felt like it was going.

Down the fucking drain.

I cupped my hands and pooled some of the water in my palms. I splashed it on my face. The man in the mirror seemed unrecognizable to me. He was extremely unhappy, exhausted, angry, depressed, hopeless. I’d gone through dark times in my life before, but this was by far the darkest, and I had no idea how I’d find the light again.

…A drink. I could use another drink.

I found myself walking toward the kitchen without even thinking much about it. My hands stung as I gripped the refrigerator door. The clock on my microwave said it was close to five in the evening. How long had I been asleep for?

I leaned forward and rested my forehead against the cold steel of the fridge door. I snapped my eyes shut. This was the lowest I had ever felt. I had fallen into a pit of despair and could see no way of climbing out. No one was around to throw me a rope, either. My bottom lip started to tremble as a wave of profound sadness crashed over me. I slid down to the floor, the cold tiles pressing against my knees as I melted against the fridge. The sadness pushed at the stitching of my soul, threatening to tear me completely apart. I started to cry. It was a soft cry at first before quickly developing into something heavier, more consuming. I started to weep, curling into a ball on the kitchen floor, wishing I could just turn back time, wishing I could have Eli back, wishing I could call my mother, wishing I could dump out all the alcohol in my house, wishing, wishing, wishing.

Lucky must have heard and gotten curious, coming into the kitchen and sniffing at my sides. I lifted my head and managed a weak smile when he kissed my cheek. “Good boy, you’re a good boy, aren’t you? The best boy.” I lay on my side and petted my little buddy, the tears flowing even more freely now. He looked at me with as much concern as those big brown puppy eyes could muster. I kissed his wet nose and pulled him against me. He curled up and lay down. That just made me cry even harder.

I was a loser. A creep.

I was a good guy, with a good heart.

I was a failure, and I was alone.

I could turn this around. I could fix things.

My thoughts ping-ponged in so many different directions. And still, I couldn’t figure out where the fuck that blood had come from. Why were my hands all cut up? Had I gotten in a fight somewhere? I didn’t remember leaving my apartment, but then again, I couldn’t even remember how I spent most of yesterday or the day before that.

A drink. I’d come to the kitchen for a drink. Maybe that could kick-start my memories. A little liquid boost to the psyche. I got back onto my feet and opened the fridge. It was mostly empty except for the two handles of tequila and half a handle of vodka.

Fuck. When did I get like this? Were these demons always inside me, just waiting for a moment of weakness that would allow them to take over? And was there any remedy for it, or was I doomed?

Lucky must not have been done with the floor cuddles. He stood on his hind legs and tried to lick at my hand. Or maybe he was telling me to stop? To close the damn refrigerator door and work to get my life back together.

“You know what… you’re right.”

Maybe I’d officially lost it—thinking that a dog was concerned about my sobriety—but I closed the fridge and went for a glass of water instead. I gulped it down. Refreshing, but it lacked that soft burn that I loved so much.

Just one shot wouldn’t hurt…

No. I couldn’t. I had to get out of the kitchen. I took my glass of water and went into the living room. That’s where the mystery of my cut-up hand finally became clear.

Next to my television was a standing mirror that was completely shattered. Glass shards glittered on the beige carpet. “Fucking hell.” I set my water down and quickly picked up Lucky before he accidentally walked over any glass. I took him to my bedroom and closed him inside, grabbing the vacuum out of the small hallway closet and cleaning up the mess I’d made last night. Glass clinked and crunched together as I passed the vacuum over the carpet.

What had gotten into me?

More importantly, how was I going to get it out?

With the living room relatively clean and free of glass, I let Lucky back out. The hangover from yesterday was beginning to push past the adrenaline that had hit me after seeing all that blood. My head throbbed while my brain swam in thick molasses. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to cry, I wanted to shout.

I wanted Eli.

I wanted him back.

“Fuck!”

This was too much for me to handle on my own. I felt myself spiraling. I grabbed my phone and unlocked it without even looking at the screen. I didn’t have many friends in this world, but I did have one, and I really needed him right now.

“Please answer,” I said as the phone rang.

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