"I am done."
The words left my mouth as soon as another drink hurt my throat. It's not fair. No fair at all.
You promised.
Why aren't you here? Taking care of my wounds? Making sure I'm ok?
Why won't you just love me back?
I did all I could for you. I nearly got killed. How could you just leave me here?
Bleeding?
Crying?
Drowning myself in alcohol?
I sat on the floor with my back against his couch. My legs were stretched out, one sock halfway off, Tom's coat still clinging to my back from earlier. I didn't turn on any lights. The place still smelled like him — soap, cologne, coffee. It made my chest feel tight.
The bottle was almost gone. I wasn't drinking fast. Just steady.
Slow sips that made my throat burn and my stomach feel heavy. I didn't mix it with anything.
Couldn't bother.
The glass kept slipping out of my hand, and I had to readjust it every few minutes. My fingers were numb, but I didn't care.
I just sat there in silence.
As if that helped.
