by Max Henry
“Can I get another drink?” I ask him.
He smiles, and takes my offered five-dollar note. “Sure.”
Malice watches him leave the table, and I look to Tigger for help avoiding the question I’m yet to answer. He watches some girl grind against her friend. Great.
“Jane?” Malice prompts.
“I thought I saw Dylan,” I blurt out.
He slides around the table to sit next to me. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I panicked, okay?”
“Totally okay. Understandable, even.”
I offer a weak smile. Sure, it’s understandable, but I’m still not happy about it. How long will I live on eggshells, paranoid that I’ll run into him? How long will Dylan still control my life?
Bronx returns with a round, and I snatch up my vodka. It burns going down. This shit’s a double shot. The boys strike up conversation—or should I say, Bronx and Malice do. Tigger sits, looking as lost as I feel.
The drinks continue through the night, and before I know it I’ve consumed five, or was it six, of the things. Whatever I’ve ordered this time tastes a shitload stronger, but the name was cute.
“How you holding up?” Malice asks as I sway to the beat beside his stool. I haven’t tried to return to the dance floor yet.
“Good,” I reply a little louder than planned.
He smiles, but I can see the same concern I spotted the first night we met creep in around the edges of his eyes.
“What’s that?” He points to the drink I’m currently slamming back.
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, and place the empty cocktail glass on the table.
He catches it before it hits the floor.
I swear that was on the table.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “But I’m going to dance.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes grow wide, and I can’t fathom why.
“Yeah. Why not?”
“No reason.” He waves me off. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself; just stay close this time.”
“Yes, Dad,” I chastise.
My legs aren’t quite as co-operative as they were when I entered the place, but I’m certain for how much I’ve had to drink that I’m doing pretty well. My ankle rolls in the ridiculously high heels I chose to wear with this dress, and by the grace of God I manage to recover before planting face-first into a throng of dancing bodies.
It takes me a full song to find a spot in the crowd that’s close to Malice, but with enough room to move. The pulse of the music deep in my bones, and the freedom I find with the help of my little buddy alcohol, makes me forget how I ended up here—makes me forget my earlier panic at ‘hearing’ Dylan.
For a little while, at least.
The realization that I’ve left Dylan, and am now dancing at a bar, accompanied by a man I want to know as more than a friend, hits me like a storm. The alcohol rams full-force with my insecurities—the two going head to head like a couple of weather fronts colliding. The result is a hurricane of panic that rips through me, tearing away any scrap of normalcy I was under the illusion I had.
My head spins, and the joy I’d had for dancing is long gone. Survival instincts kick in; I need to find somewhere dark, and quiet.
I head back to Malice—fake smile in place. He offers me a refill of whatever that sickly thing was, and eager for the numbness I’m told accompanies being blind drunk to envelop me, I knock it back in one go. My hand doesn’t leave the stem of the glass until it’s safely atop the table.
“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have let Bronx buy you that,” Malice says.
“Come on, bro. She’s having fun. Aren’t you, love?”
I steer my vision in the general direction of Bronx’s voice, but the dim lighting leaves me working out which blur I should be addressing. “Yeah, sure.”
A tickle on my arm has me look down to find Malice’s hand at my elbow. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He starts to stand.
“Nothing to worry about.” I try to wave him off, but end up hooking my nails under his jaw as I pass by a little too close for comfort.
He frowns, and my ebbing panic flows back in for the seventh wave; this time, the shit’s going to crest the shore.
“I’m going to the ladies.” My eyes burn from the concentration I’ve got them under. “I don’t feel so flash anymore.”
Malice says something, but I can’t stick around to find out what it was. People part like the red sea with a single look at my pale face. I get to the bathrooms in record time—which is where my master plan comes to an abrupt halt. The queue extends out the door. Fuck. My saliva has doubled, and a slow burn is inching up my esophagus. The line shifts far too slow for me to make it. To the dislike of the other ‘ladies in waiting’, I barge past them to beeline for the basins. My hands grip the edge with seconds to spare.
Burning drink pours out of me, and the smell sets me off for a second round. I heave into the basin to a symphony of ‘eew’, and ‘gross’. Not that I care. At this moment of utter rock bottom, my world consists of the basin, my vomit, and the shaky legs that are stopping me finishing this on the floor.
A cubicle comes free, and I fend off the approaching woman like a well-trained line backer. She curses something at me, but the ringing in my ears makes it hard to comprehend. I slam the cubicle door, screw my eyes shut, and fall to a heap against the wall.
The mixture of intoxication, and panic coursing inside of me make for a deadly recipe. Lava surges through my veins, whilst my gut churns acid. My head pounds, and my ears ring. I can’t catch a breath.
Past caring who sees me, or what they may say, I spread out on the floor. With my knees bent, I can fit in the space the cubicle provides. Ignoring how disgusting the floor more than likely is, I reach over my head, and wrap my hands around the back of the toilet. The cool porcelain feels like heaven on my burning skin. I press my wrists hard to the cold surface, seeking a fast recovery from this mess.
Somebody pounds against the door. “Are you okay in there?”
I gurgle something out that must come off as sufficient, because the heels tap away from me.
Toilets flush, water runs, and women gossip. The world goes on around me while I retreat into my three-by-five space, and find comfort in the half-solitude of it.
I could fall asleep. I know I’d feel a truckload better if I did. Maybe just for five minutes, I mean, who’s to know? Really?
The gossip in the queue dies off, and a distinctly masculine voice grows nearer. Whoever they are, they sound pretty darn pissed off. I smile in my inebriated state, lying on the floor. Somebody’s gonna get it!
“You can’t come in here,” a repulsed, female voice states.
“You going to stop me?”
Shit that sounds familiar. Dylan? Has Dylan come to take me home?
I teeter on the edge of sleep—the sensation of slipping into unconsciousness heavenly on my overworked senses.
“Hey!”
“Just hold it there, woman.”
Wow. It’s going down out there . . .
“Jane?”
Thud. Thud.
“Jane? Can you open the door?”
“In a minute,” I slur out.
“Fuck. Bronx, hold this for me.”
Bronx. That name seems familiar . . .
“What the hell?” a woman cries out. “You’re keen, buddy.”
“Jane? Shit!”
I swear that came from above me.
I urge my lazy eyelids to open for a second, but the effort seems so monumental. Is it worth it? Should I?
Something hits the ground beside my legs, and my eyes fly open out of pure instinct.
Hello, gorgeous.
“Who are you? I think I’m meant to know you.” I ogle the broody man standing over me.
I smile, but the guy is busy talking to someone else. Huh, when did he get the door open?
Take a picture, people; it’ll last longer!
“WHERE’S T
IGGER, Bronx?”
“He’s making sure we’ve got a taxi available.”
“Good work.”
I carry Jane from the ladies room, through the bar, and out the front. People stare; others act like the sight is nothing unusual. She’s out cold, and to be honest, I’m worried sick.
I’m so fucking stupid.
Why did I let her drink so much, so fast? Sure, us boys do it often, but I managed to overlook the fact she hasn’t been out for a solid night drinking in a fucking long time. My gaze flicks down to her chest every so often, hoping to see it still rise and fall.
“Here, bro.” Bronx holds the cab door open. “We’ll find our own. Get her home, huh?”
“Thanks, man.” I want to tell him what an idiot I am, make sure he doesn’t think less of me after this, but now isn’t the time to fuck around.
The cabbie looks over the seat at us while I adjust Jane against me to ensure her head is up, and her airway stays open.
“If she pukes, that’s four hundred,” he warns.
“Does she look like she’s coherent enough to puke, man?”
He shakes his head, and turns to drive. “Where to?”
I recite our temporary address, and curse at how far it is for us. This taxi ride is going to cost me a small fortune not sharing with the guys, but there’s no fucking way I’m taking her to my house in town—not when it’s right next to him.
My gaze never leaves Jane the whole way there. I watch her twitch in her sleep, check she’s breathing, and keep an eye out for any signs she might wake to vomit again.
She stays out cold the entire trip. It concerns the fuck outta me. The cabbie hangs about while I get her inside—no doubt with the meter running—and I make sure she’s sitting upright before I go back out to sign away a fucking kidney to cover the cost. Thank Christ my credit card carries a healthy limit.
Tires crunch into the dark, and I make my way back in to get to the task of taking care of my mess. I walk inside to find Rocco licking Jane’s hand. He whimpers when she doesn’t respond.
“I know, mate. I’m sorry. I did that to Mom.”
He trots a circle around the chair she’s in, only to sit right back where he was. He’s as agitated as I am. Jane gargles, and I close the distance to her in two brisk strides. My heart races. What if she vomits in her sleep? Fuck, I couldn’t live with myself if the worst happened.
With Rocco keeping guard, I manage to get her undressed, and into one of my T-shirts. She never stirs, even while I clean around her mouth, and remove the small chunks of something I didn’t know she ate from her hair. Using the pillows from her room, I pad the side of my bed so she’s propped up on her side. At least then if she does throw up in her sleep, her airway will stay clear.
Rocco settles in at the foot of the bed when I turn the light out, and climb in next to her. She drools a little, sleeping with her mouth wide. I try several times to coax it closed, but her jaw falls slack within seconds after each attempt I make. An hour passes with her in the same position, and me unable to close my eyes.
I’ve never worried this much about someone since the day Dad tried to top himself. What does that tell you? I know I sure as fuck feel nauseated thinking about it.
This is getting too much, too fast.
I sit up beside her, watching her for any signs she’s out of her alcohol-induced coma. Nothing. Jane sleeps soundly beside me, blissfully unaware of what her head is going to feel like come morning. The woman is going to wish for death once the sun rises.
I look over at Rocco, sleeping soundly in the corner of the room. That dog makes a bed anywhere. He could be perched on top of a flagpole and still sleep—I’d place money on it.
Now that it’s apparent I’m the only one who’s going to be awake all night, I settle into the pillows, and stare at the join of the ceiling and wall. My mind runs wild, coming up with a million different ways tonight could have ended if I had I paid closer attention.
I watched Jane all night: the way her hips moved, the way she twisted her arms over her head, and closed her eyes as the music took her. I watched the way she did that tip to the left thingy when she smiled at Bronx. I watched every single detail about the way she spoke to my friends, the air of false confidence she gave off, but I never saw her.
I allowed myself to be fooled by the façade I know she puts up for the world.
Why? Was it easier to play along with the fantasy that she was having a completely carefree night out? How delusional am I? If I put myself in her position, I can only imagine what shit must have been running through her head.
I should have known. She bolted to the ladies as if her life depended on it. Stupid old me chose to take her lie at face value, and believe it was the alcohol. Sure, maybe that was the reason for her to throw up, but I’m pretty fucking positive it was a panic attack that had her so nauseous to start with. The woman was freaking out, and I picked then to be the indifferent asshole I pretend to be, and let her run away.
But in all reality, would she have told me what was bothering her if I had asked? I look at her, softly snoring beside me. Of course she wouldn’t have. How do I know? Because reverse the roles, and would I have told her?
Not at all.
I would have done the same.
I shake my head, and cringe at the harsh reality of it all. What good have I done her? She’s not in danger any more, and she’s even learnt to smile again. But the most important part of her, the ability to feel safe enough to confide in somebody is the part I’m neglecting.
I’ve allowed her to believe that nobody cares enough to help her through the dark shit in her head. I’ve made her feel alone—again.
My flesh chills as I realize the worst part of all—we’re exactly the same.
MY HEAD pounds. I lift my arms up and attempt to rub my temples, but my hands flop somewhere on the pillow beside my head. The night before rushes back like a horror movie, showing me images of drinks, people, and my vomit.
Fuck. What kind of idiot did I make of myself?
I force my eyes open, only to slam them tight. Shit! The light sears into my brain, sparking off a wave of pressure that runs down my neck, and into every limb. Surely the best answer will be a shower—a cold one at that?
I slip my legs off the bed, and keep my eyes shut while I push to stand. My head swims, and before I can register I’m off balance, my shoulder slams into the edge of the nightstand. Curse words fly from my mouth, and I clutch at the pain in my sides.
I’m still fucking drunk.
What exactly did I drink?
I lie on the floor where I’ve ended up, opening my eyes for short bursts every five or so seconds. After a while of doing this, my retinas have adjusted—albeit, still complaining. Attempt number two at standing comes off with more success, and I stumble to the bathroom.
A hand on each side of the doorway, I sway, blinking at the mirror.
In the center, is a note, taped to the glass. I wobble forwards, and snatch it up before falling onto my backside on the closed toilet. Minutes pass before I can focus well enough to read.
Jane,
Didn’t want to leave you on your own, but work called. Back soon.
No sooner than I screw the note up, and groan at the jackhammers going to work in my skull, the front door opens. The sound of Malice talking with Rocco—albeit in a different room—screams like the roar of a jet engine. I brace my head in my hands, and screw my eyes tight.
Make the ache go away.
“Jane? Shit, there you are.”
“Ugh,” I moan out.
“Here. Have these.” Malice hands me a couple of Advil, and a large glass of water.
“I’m sorry, I ruined the night.”
His hands cup the sides of my face. “Listen to me. You didn’t ruin a thing. Okay? I should have taken better care of you.”
I push his hands away, and grimace at the wave of nausea the movement brings on. “Don’t! Stop taking care of me. I’m not a fucking char
ity case. I’m not a victim,” I wail at him.
My head pounds, and acid rises. I elbow Malice out of the way, and spin around to lift the lid before filling the bowl with—for the most part—bile.
Kill me now.
Hands stroke my hair back, and Malice rubs gentle circles between my shoulders. “You’re not a charity case, Jane. But you are a victim. You’re the victim of a callous asshole of a man who didn’t love what he had. You better start accepting that, otherwise you’ll never be able to stop blaming yourself.”
I cry over the top of my burning cheeks. I don’t want to accept that I’m a victim. I don’t want to feel more of a failure than I do at this moment.
“It’s okay to accept that you don’t have control sometimes.” He sighs. “Just don’t get sucked into blaming yourself, okay?”
I ease back from the bowl, and rest on my haunches. I can’t comprehend how much of a hot mess I must be. “I already do. I always have.”
“Then best we do something to fix that.” Malice stands, and wets a face cloth under the tap. He wrings it out, and kneels beside me.
I close my eyes as he washes my face with care. Unbidden tears start again, and I fail at keeping my chin steady while he washes.
“Babe, you’ll be fine. You’re not in this alone.” He finishes cleaning, and sits back.
“I just want to be normal. I’m sick of being like . . . like . . . this.”
“You are normal.”
• • • • •
“THESE GUYS look okay.” Malice slides his phone across to me to. “It says they don’t need a doctor’s referral, which is a plus.”
I run my eye over the listing for a crisis-counseling center in town. I have to admit, they do look good. “I feel sick.”
“Are you going to vomit again?” Malice moves to stand.
“No!” I shake my head. “Sorry. I meant I feel sick reading about this. I hate that I’ve been lowered to having to do this.”
“Everyone there will feel the same.” He slides back next to me at the table. “They’re all in the same boat as you.”
“I know. It’s only that it seems like the ultimate cop-out, you know? If I do this, then I admit I’m too hopeless to help myself.”