Page 9 of Emmett

One of us is.

She didn’t say my name. She didn’t tell me that she ever loved me. She walked away from me. Again. She didn’t hesitate to leave. Again. I practically begged her to love me, and she left me.

I could call my dad. I could call Uncle Davis. I could call any number of people, and they would be here in a second. I know that – I really do. But to try to explain to them what thisfeelslike, to try to put this into words…it just isn’t possible, and I don’t have it in me to try.

Any other day, my routine would be to change into something comfortable; usually some type of sweats or a pair of shorts when the weather is hot like it has been lately, crank up some music, and dive into my studies.

This time, I skip the music and the studying. Instead, I crack the top off of a bottle of probably-bottom-shelf gin and take a few long, stinging swigs before plopping down onto the couch. The only thing that I make any real effort to do is pull my phone out and text my dad.

Me:Think I’m getting sick. Went home. Gonna take some time off.

Of course, in his usual fashion, he replies to me in seconds. I’m pretty sure the man’s got some sort of specialalert system in place for me, because he never takes more than a few minutes to write me back, no matter what he’s doing.

Dad:Do you want me to come over? I can bring you some supplies.

Me:No. Thanks. I grabbed some already.

Dad:Alright, bud. If you need anything, let one of us know. I love you.

Me:You too.

I really hate lying to him. It doesn’t feel good, and it’s not something that I’m used to. I’ve always been able to tell him practically anything. I mean, even when I went through that wild, partying teenager phase, I could call him absolutely off my face wasted and tell him that I needed a ride home. As long as I wasn’t in any real trouble, he would show up and he’d just let my hangover serve as my punishment the next day. He was never mad.

But if I tell him about this; if I let him in and tell him that the lights just switched off and the darkness has clawed its way out of the cage I had it held in, he’ll just worry about me more than he already does, and he’ll hate her more than he already does. I don’t know why I care so much about that part; I hate her, too.

But she’s still my mom.

The more that I drink, the less it burns going down. Eventually, I swap out my bottle for a can of what I now recognize as some sort of IPA, which is sweet in comparison to the rich herbal flavor of the gin. I drink until my eyes stop burning and my face goes numb, and then I drink a little more.

It’s not until I can’t walk properly that I finally kick my shoes off and grab a blanket from the basket sitting next to mycouch, drape it over myself and let the spinning of the room rock me into a less-than-restful sleep.

FOUR

Emmett

A week of dreamless sleep, more lies to my dad, and days that I don’t remember pass by me like molasses, and by the end of it, I’ve run out of liquor. My house is a disaster area; trash is littered in a wide orbit around the couch, where I’ve practically lived for the past eight days. Old food is left uneaten and strewn across the coffee table next to empty cans and bottles, which I just brush off over the side any time I need the space to set something new down.

I haven’t checked my emails or done anything regarding work at all, other than texting to let Dad know that I’m ‘still sick’ and need more time. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to work or school at this point. None of that feels like it matters anymore, in the grand scheme of things. I just can’t give a shit about any of it.

My doorbell rings out, singing its loud, too-long song before I open the door and greet the person on the other side. Okay, greet is a loose term; I offer her a tight smile and show her my ID before grabbing the bag from her arms, then I kick the door shut behind me without a single word. I tip her generously through the app, becauseit’s important to always be a gentleman, but that’s about as far as I’m willing to push any effort into being one right now.

As I unload the fresh supply of booze conveniently delivered right to my front door, I crack open a fresh bottleand bring it to my mouth to suck it down. I’ve spent the past eight days trying to figure out what exactly it is that I’m feeling, while simultaneously trying not to feel any of it at all. I still can’t put a name to it; the only thing I know is that if I stop drinking I start thinking, and when I start thinking, my eyes start to burn and my chest feels like a semi truck has rolled right over top of it and then I can’t fucking breathe.

I’m not the guy who gets his confidence shaken, the guy who wonders if he’s good enough or if he’s done enough or if he’s worthy of what life gives him. I’ve been down plenty of times; I’m used to that and I’ve mastered the art of hiding it. I’ve never felt likethis.

Right now, my mind is like a foreign planet with screeching voices that aren’t even my own swirling around inside, drowning out the voice that once lived there and replacing his message with their own:

You weren’t worth sticking around for.

Your own mother couldn’t love you.

You’re hiding like a coward.

Your father would besodisappointed in you.

You’re letting everyone down.

The messages play on repeat, screaming in my ear over and over again until I drown them.