Page 26 of Brutal for It
“You don’t get to define me,” I say, voice sharp. “You don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t get to tell me who I am. So take your gossip and your bitterness and walk away.”
Her smirk falters. She wasn’t expecting fight. She mutters something under her breath and turns, storming back up the beach.
I stay rooted to the sand until she’s gone, every muscle shaking. My throat aches from holding back the sob, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
When I finally sink down on the sand, tears spill, hot and heavy. The ocean roars in front of me, and I whisper, “I’m not her anymore. I’m not.”
But the words don’t stick.
The next day, I go through the motions. Work. Sweep. Haul. Smile when the guys crack jokes. But the woman’s words cling to me like grit under my skin.
Trash stays trash. People don’t forget.
By evening, I can’t take it anymore. Feeling restless I take a drive. Twenty miles out of town there’s a dive bar with neon lights buzzing over the door.
I sit in the car for ten minutes, arguing with myself. You’re stronger than this. You don’t need it. But the whispers win.
Inside, it smells like stale beer and cigarettes. A jukebox plays something twangy. The bartender barely looks up when I sit down.
“What’ll it be?” he asks.
I stare at the bottles lined up behind him. My mouth waters. My stomach twists. “Vodka tonic,” I choke out, the words scraping my throat.
He nods and sets a glass in front of me, condensation already slick on the rim.
I wrap my hand around it but don’t lift it. The smell hits me — sharp, chemical, familiar — and my whole body trembles. I stare at it like it’s a loaded gun.
I can’t.
I want to escape it all. This will do that without me hitting the hard stuff. I’m an adult, this is legal. I can control myself. Just one drink.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I can’t.
“First one’s the hardest,” a voice says beside me.
I look up. A man’s slid onto the stool next to mine. Mid-forties maybe, shaggy hair, tired eyes. He lifts his hands like he’s harmless. “Relax. Not trying anything. Just noticed the look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you order it but can’t drink it.” He nods at my glass. “Been there. I’m sober too. Five years. Wife died. Tried to drown myself in whiskey. Didn’t work. Meetings did.”
Something in me softens. A stranger who gets it. Someone who isn’t looking at me like trash.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” I admit, voice low.
He nods. “Me neither. But sometimes you just need a place where the noise is louder than the noise in your head.”
The bartender wanders back. The man holds up a hand. “Two waters.”
He pushes one toward me. “Here. Safer. Trust me.”
I stare at the glass. Clear. Harmless. My throat’s dry, so I take a sip. Cool. Clean. Relief.
We talk, surface-level stuff. He tells me about his job, his dog, his grief. I nod, sip the water, let the tension in my chest ease.
I don’t see his hand when he leans close. Don’t see the flick of his wrist. Don’t see the powder dissolve. God, how I wish I did.
