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“But you consumed every day,” Emma said softly. “More than a glass of wine.”
I gritted my teeth. I shouldn’t feel frustrated because Emma said the truth. While I realized I had a problem, I didn’t think it was as monumental as Emma made it out to be. I wouldn’t lose it because I suddenly had to live without alcohol. Deep down, I couldn’t help but hope that I’d eventually be able to drink a glass here and there, and stay in control over it.
After dinner, Emma and I retired to our bedroom. By now, not just my back was sweaty but my hands felt clammy too. I was way too hot.
Emma gave me a scrutinizing glance. “You look flushed.”
“It’s too hot for me.”
She didn’t comment, but I could tell that she blamed it on withdrawal. I preferred to think my parents had simply turned the AC too high.
I took a long, cold shower but when I stepped out, I didn’t feel cooler, and worse, I felt slightly lightheaded. I stretched out in bed and stared up at the ceiling. I felt a little uneasy.
“Are you alright?” Emma asked softly.
“I’m fine.”
She nodded but didn’t look convinced. “I’ll just get ready, then I’ll be back.”
“I don’t need constant supervision. There’s no alcohol in the house that I could access.” The idea that Dad had locked his collection of expensive whiskies and bourbons in a safe because of me made me feel horrible.
I closed my eyes, but after a while, my pulse began racing, and my throat felt tight, so I opened my eyes again and continued staring at the ceiling. I really wanted a drink with Dad. It was our tradition to end the evening with a tumbler filled with exquisite spirits.
The sound of Emma’s wheelchair made me turn my head. “My father and I had the tradition of ending our evening with a good glass of whisky. It’s how we always bonded even after an argument.”
“You’ll find new traditions and new ways to bond.”
“It doesn’t work with a glass of water or a green smoothie,” I muttered, feeling really angry all of a sudden. Emma stretched out beside me and put her hand on my chest.
“I know it feels like you’re giving up too much right now, but you’re gaining more. You’re gaining control and health.”
“And I get to keep you and our baby. That’s my price for giving up alcohol.”
Emma leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be by your side every step of the way. Even when it gets hard.”
I nodded and stroked her cheek. My headache had worsened and was impacting my vision.
“Let’s sleep,” Emma suggested. She turned off the lights. Despite my pulse picking up once again, I didn’t ask her to turn it back on. Whatever was happening with my body, I could handle it.
My hands were bloody. The knife I was clutching was bloody. My clothes were bloody.
So much blood.
A scream sounded, followed by pleading.
I looked up from my hands. Renato was chained to a chair. His body was covered in cuts and burns, and skin was missing in parts. “Stop. Please stop. I don’t know anything. Have mercy.”
He pleaded with me. I was the one torturing him.
I wanted to stop, but my hand with the knife moved toward his chest. I couldn’t stop it. The moment the tip of my knife bored into his skin and slid beneath the upper layer, he let out a hoarse scream, his features twisting in agony. Suddenly, his face morphed into that of Enea.
“Stop,” he cried.
“Stop,” I repeated, almost as desperate as he was. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I watched myself torture my friend likea bystander, unable to help him, unable to protect him from myself.
“Samuel!”
My cheek stung.