Page 13 of Game Changer
And I'm not sure if that's a good thing, or a disaster waiting to happen.
Chapter 5 - David
As soon as I close the motel room door behind me, it hits me again.
The reason why I must leave now. The unmistakable smell of whiskey wafting from a nearby room where the door stands slightly ajar. A maintenance worker or another guest, it doesn't matter.
What matters is the instant physical reaction: my mouth waters, my pulse quickens, my brain screams for what it knows will ease the constant, gnawing ache that's become my constant companion.
I sprint to my car, fumbling with the keys, desperate to escape before I do something I'll regret. Before I destroy the fragile trust I've just begun to build with my son and with Mia.
Once inside, I grip the steering wheel, and force myself to take three deep breaths before starting the engine. Even then, my hands shake as I back out of the parking space and pull onto the street.
The drive home is a blur. Traffic lights, other cars, pedestrians… They all fade into the background as I battle the craving consuming me from the inside out. It's been less than twenty-four hours since my last drink, and my body is already in full rebellion.
I park haphazardly in my building's garage and make my way to the elevator, avoiding eye contact with the doorman. In the mirrored walls, I catch glimpses of myself. Pale, sweating, eyes wild. I look like a man on the edge, because that's exactly what I am.
My apartment door finally closes behind me, and I slide down against it until I'm sitting on the floor, head in my hands. The silence is deafening after hours of Tyler's cheerful chatter. I should find comfort in having met my son, in the way he looked at me with trust and excitement, in the plans we made for tomorrow.
Instead, all I can think about is the bottle of scotch I know is hidden in the back of my closet. The emergency stash. The one I promised myself I wouldn't touch.
"No," I say aloud, my voice echoing in the empty apartment. "Not today."
I push myself up and stagger to the couch, collapsing onto it. My skin feels too tight, like it's shrinking around my bones. I pull off my shirt, then my shoes and socks, desperate for relief from the heat building inside me despite the cool air of the apartment.
My vision blurs as I stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds between breaths. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—
The craving hits again, stronger this time. I can almost taste the burn, feel the warmth spreading through my chest, the blessed numbness that would follow. Just one drink to take the edge off. Just one to stop the shaking.
"No," I repeat, louder this time. "I promised Tyler."
Tyler. Four years old with my eyes and Mia's smile. A little boy who called me Dad without hesitation, who wants to learn to throw a football just like me, who hugged me goodbye with complete trust that I'll return tomorrow as promised.
I can't let him down. I won't.
But God, this is hell. My stomach cramps, my head pounds, and sweat soaks the couch beneath me. Is this withdrawal? Already?How much have I been drinking for my body to react this violently to less than a day without alcohol?
Too much. Far too much.
I roll onto my side, curling into myself as another wave of nausea hits. The clock on the wall says it's only 4 PM. Hours to go before I can hope for sleep to provide some escape.
I try to focus on Tyler instead of the craving. His laugh when I showed him how to grip the football. The serious concentration on his face as he tried to mimic my throwing motion. The chocolate ice cream smeared across his chin. His small hand in mine as we walked to the car.
The memories help, but only briefly before the physical need returns, relentless and demanding.
Maybe I should call someone. Ethan? No, he's got his own life with Sophia now. Jack's on the road. And Michael… Michael would help, but he'd also look at me with that mix of pity and disappointment that I can't bear to see right now.
Instead, I ride it out alone, as the minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. At some point, I drag myself to the bathroom, retching into the toilet though there's little in my stomach to expel. I splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.
Back on the couch, I cycle through every distraction I can think of—counting backward from one thousand, reciting old football plays, even trying to remember the pledge of allegiance from elementary school. Anything to keep my mind off the scotch in the closet and the bourbon at the store just three blocks away.
Hours pass in this torturous state. Night falls and still sleep eludes me. I turn on the TV for noise, for company, but the beer commercials are too much to bear, so I switch it off again.
Sometime around midnight, I find myself standing in my bedroom doorway, staring at the closet where I know the scotch is hidden. My feet carry me forward without conscious thought, my hand reaching for the doorknob.
"Dad, I'll see you tomorrow!" Tyler's voice echoes in my memory, stopping me cold.
I back away from the closet, retreat to the living room, and collapse once more onto the couch. This time, I pull my phone out and look at the photo Mia gave me yesterday. Tyler grinning at the camera, missing tooth and all.
