LUCAS
It has been a while since I felt this way. I almost forgot the way my skin crawls as the walls seemingly close in on me. With each second passing, the walls inch closer, and the air in my lungs becomes more sparse.
I hate it. I hate the feeling of drowning, suffocating slowly while the rest of the world moves on like I don’t even exist. It took me years to get over this feeling, and just when I thought I had figured it out, Delilah came along and ruined everything. I was doing great without her. Maybe I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t miserable either.
Looking over at the empty bottle of whiskey sitting on my nightstand, I quietly curse to myself. I’m out of booze, and it’s not like I can walk down to the nearest convenience store and pick up something else. I don’t even know when the next shipment is coming in. Unless it’s today, it’s not soon enough.
Briefly, I think about sending out the helicopter. But Xander is already on my case, and I’m sure I’d never hear the end of it if I used his precious school money to get me more alcohol. I would roll my eyes at him if my head wasn’t pounding already. But my killer headache makes me sit up slowly instead.
It’s not until I’m upright that I realize how bad my hangover really is. Ugh. This is literally straight from hell. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the room to stop spinning.
Putting my feet on the floor helps ground me. My equilibrium balances out, and it doesn’t feel like I’m about to fall off the earth.
But that’s only step one. This isn’t my first rodeo, as they say. I’ve been through worse than this, though this is bad enough.
I’m sure age doesn’t help things. Back in the day, I’d wake up feeling like shit, down some black coffee and a couple of aspirin—if that—and I’d be back in action.
Nowadays, the thought of the aftermath is almost enough to make me avoid drinking in the first place.
But not quite enough. Because here I am, feeling like absolute dogshit with an entire day ahead of me. A day in which I’m supposed to at least appear to be in charge of things around here.
I get on my feet slowly, cautiously. When the room generally stays the way it should, with everything upright and nothing spinning, I take the slow, painful walk to the bathroom. This is almost bad enough to make me swear off drinking for good. The only thing keeping me moving right now is knowing it will pass.
If only I had the hair of the dog to get me through it. But no, I had to go and drain the entire bottle last night. Fucking idiot.
Somehow, I manage to make it into the shower. This isn’t the time to comfort myself with anything warm. Cold water hits me like a million little razor blades, digging into my skin, into my very skull. But it’s what I need now. It wakes me up and gets my blood pumping. I stand under the spray for as long as I can stand it before adding enough hot water to make it bearable. By the time I’m out, I feel substantially more human, but I still drag ass into the kitchen to make coffee. A lot of very strong coffee.
I know this has to stop. Every morning, it’s the same thing. I can’t keep doing this. It won’t end well. I’m not the kid I used to be—there’s no bouncing back. At this rate, I’ve set myself up for a day of doing nothing but trying to keep my head from hitting the desk. I ache from head to toe and can’t hold a thought that doesn’t have to deal with fatigue or pain. I force myself to chug a bottle of water while the coffee brews, then head into the bedroom to pull out my clothes for the day before grooming as best as I can.
There’s going to be a point when I hit bottom. It happens to everybody in my position. Shit gets out of hand to the point where there’s no continuing in the same vein any longer. If this isn’t rock bottom, I don’t want to know what is. And frankly, I don’t know that I have it in me to claw my way out of this. This might be where I stay.
Eventually, I’ll get used to staggering through my day. That’s another difference from my old life. I could afford to nurse an especially bad hangover until I felt up to facing existence. Now, I have no choice. I have bullshit responsibilities and people counting on me.
A look at my reflection as I’m shaving tells me I’m in serious need of eye drops. My eyes have that bloodshot, haggard look of a drunk. There’s a bottle in the medicine cabinet, and I use it liberally once I’ve finished rinsing my cheeks.
I also make liberal use of ibuprofen, downing a small handful before cracking open another bottle of water and gulping half of it down. Greasy food used to be a cure-all, but the concept of having so much as a bite of food pass my lips makes my stomach churn. That might have to wait until later.
I fill a travel mug with coffee, pack my laptop into my briefcase, and head to my office. At least my gait is steady, and the murderous pounding in my head has lessened to something closer to a dull throb. Every footstep isn’t agony, so I can afford to offer a brief smile to the few people I cross paths with.
Always in the back of my head is whether they know. Whether they see what’s happening inside me. Has it started showing itself in my face? I don’t think so, not yet, but I know it’s inevitable. Nobody lies to themselves quite like an addict. Most of the time, they’re the last to know everybody’s been able to see through them for ages. I never wanted to be that person. I still don’t.
But, my god, what I wouldn’t give for a drink.
I’m in my office before my assistant arrives, and that’s a small blessing since I’m not in a place where conversation is a good idea. By the time I’ve finished my coffee, I might be able to consider it. I close my door for the sake of suffering in private, then sink into my chair with an exhausted sigh.
My brain is full of cotton candy, and my limbs feel heavy. I manage to pull out my laptop and boot it up, but I can’t bring myself to concentrate on any of the emails awaiting my attention. I would happily delete my entire inbox if I thought I could get away with it.
I force myself through them, one by one, even the piddly bullshit I shouldn’t have to concern myself with. Signing off on purchase orders and emails from parents about their children. At least it’s nothing too challenging, nothing I have to expend any brain power over. Sounds from outside my office tell me I’m not alone anymore, but at least she doesn’t invade my privacy. Thank god for small favors.
As it turns out, someone else wants to invade my privacy, only he uses the phone. I’d swear the man has a hidden camera trained on me at all times. He always seems to know exactly when I want to talk to him the least.
I can’t get away with ignoring him the way I’ve done to Lauren all these weeks, so I pick up the phone on the fourth ring. “You know better than to hit me up first thing in the morning,” I tell my brother. I actually sound pretty clear-headed and energetic, at least to my ears.
“I figured I’d grab you before the day gets too busy.”
“Considerate of you.” Something’s up. He sounds too smooth, too even.
My suspicions make me sit up straighter and push the pain and fatigue away. I know how to rally, and something tells me that’s what I need to do now. “What’s on your mind?” I ask.