Page 221 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Gladly.”

I turn and walk out with the wine bottle in my hand, up the stairs, and into my room, slamming the door behind me.

My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the bottle once I’m inside my room.

I stand there for a second just staring at it, feeling like I can taste the off switch. Then my brain starts doing what it loves to do—rationalize just a little:

Just drink it.

You already ruined the night.

You’re already the problem.

Might as well.

I swallow hard.

I want it so badly. I feel every part of my body aching for just a taste. I walk over to the balcony doors and yank them open. Cold air hits my face, and I welcome it. It calms my nervous system slightly, and I’m glad for the small reprieve. The backyard is lit up in soft lights. Everything looks peaceful from up here, like the world doesn’t know what’s happening inside this house, inside my head.

I step out with the wine bottle still in my hand and just stare at it. It’s the easiest way to turn this all off. Nobody’sreallyexpecting that I can do this.

When did I become like this?

It feels like I can still hear the little boy inside me who’s screaming for peace, who wants to be happy, who wants to be free, who wants to be…fuck, who wants to be…loved.

I hate that I’m disappointing that little boy. Because I just don’t think I can feel much of anything anymore.

I grip the bottle harder and walk to the railing. My hands shake as I twist the cork and pop it open.

It kills me that I may never be someone the younger version of me would be proud of. But even if I can’t be that person for myself, I have to fake it like I am for those boys.

How will they ever escape the cycle if they have nobody to look up to, nobody they can turn to?

The smell hits me first from the bottle. It’s sweet, and sharp, and so achingly familiar. My mouth waters instantly. My stomach flips as my fingers close around the neck until they ache from how tight I’m squeezing it. My head hurts from the constant battle raging inside it.

I tip the bottle over the railing and watch as red pours out in a steady stream, splashing onto the concrete below.

It looks like blood.

It looks like letting go.

I keep pouring until the bottle is empty, and it makes my throat burn even more, like my body is mad at me for denying it. When the last drop is gone, I hold onto the empty bottle for a second, like I’m wondering if there’s still a drop left in it I could get. Then I set it down and grip the railing with both hands.

My chest is starting to feel too tight, like there’s a strap of bricks around it.

I stare out into the yard and let the anger move in. Because anger is easier. Anger doesn’t make me feel like a little kid who can’t stand up or protect himself. Anger doesn’t make me miss my mom so much that it feels like my heart might split open. But then my face gets hot, and my eyes sting. The anger turns into pain without warning, and I’m crying before I even realize it. I wipe the tears away aggressively, like that’ll fix this, like that’ll put the emotions back in their place.

It doesn’t.

I press my forehead against the cool metal railing and let myself fall apart in the only place no one can see.

I’m pissed at him. I’m pissed at Rose for pretending she cares only when it’s easy and looks good, and then sitting there and letting him do the awful things he does. I’m pissed at my mom for leaving me with him. I’m pissed at myself for still wanting someone to save me when I’m too old to be saved.

The emptiness opens its mouth again to beg for relief.

Go get a drink.

My eyes snap open.No.