Page 72 of Piggy

For the first time in a long time, the house is peaceful. No shouting, no loud TVs, no chaos.

I thought it would feel good. Like I could finally breathe.

Instead, I feel like I’m suffocating.

The place is a disaster. The police tore through every drawer, every cupboard, every closet, flipping mattresses, dumping boxes. My room looks like a robbery happened. Brax’s, too. Everything’s trashed.

I don’t even know why I bother, but I start cleaning. Maybe because it’s the only thing I can control.

In the kitchen, I find a bottle of vodka left behind on the counter.

Unopened. Full. Forgotten.

My hand hovers over it.

Mom drank this when she couldn’t deal.

Brax drank this when he didn’t want to feel anything at all.

So did everyone at his parties. They all looked happy. Loud. Free.

Meanwhile, I’ve been sober. Careful. Trying to do everything right. And where did that get me?

Alone. Job that doesn’t pay the bills. House I’m losing. Brother in prison. Little brother taken away.

Still, my fingers tremble when I twist the cap. I find a red solo cup and pour just a little. Barely a sip. I taste it.

Nasty!

It burns all the way down. Bitter. Like nail polish remover. I cough and shake my head. No idea how people drink this stuff.

But then, I add a splash of pop. It fizzes. I try again.

Better.

Ice makes it smoother. Another sip. Another. Before I know it, my cheeks are warm. My lips feel soft. My mind slows.

And just like that, I get it.

This is why they drank.

Because when the buzz hits, everything awful fades like a dream. Grayson’s left? Doesn’t hurt as much. I might lose the house? Who cares? Atticus is gone? Still hurts, but it doesn’t hollow me out the same way.

That night, I fall asleep on the couch with an empty cup in my hand and music playing low.

And the next night?

I do it again.

And the night after that.

Within a week, I have a new routine: I wake up early, go to work, smile like I’m okay. I take extra shifts. I lie to my boss about how well I’m doing. I buy cheap vodka at gas stations and drink it with whatever soda I can afford.

No one knows.

And tonight?

Tonight, I dance barefoot in my torn-up kitchen with drink in hand, spinning and laughing at nothing. The music thumpsin my ears, and I feel... something close to joy. Or maybe it’s just the numbness.