Forty-Four (Danny); Further and Further.
I knock back the rest of whatever shit I put in my glass and stare out of the window, watching the world come and go. I'm bored with this. Bored with life. Bored with me. Bored with the eternal fucking insecurities that alcohol just won't kill. And believe me I've tried. I hate it, this useless, helpless feeling. It never leaves me, although if I drink enough alcohol that I forget who I am, it subsides, just a little. But it never leaves, it always comes back.
And haven't I become so pathetically poetic all of a sudden? I sneer and get up, walking across to the kitchen. I'm slightly unsteady on my feet. Fuck, how much have I had to drink? Actually, I don't think I want to know. My kitchen looks like the morning after the night before, a drunkard's hell; empty bottles upon empty bottles upon empty bottles of alcohol. I haven't drunk this much since Amy was in hospital...
And thinking about her was a fucking stupid thing to do! I fight down the urge to cry and pick up the nearest bottle to me, hurling it with as much force as I can possibly muster at the opposite wall. As the glass explodes and shatters across the floor I feel a certain sense of destructive release, so I repeat the action. Again and again and again until I've run out of bottles to throw and I catch myself about to throw a dinner plate. God knows how many days that has seen since I last washed it. God, I'm such a fucking mess! No wonder Amy's gone off with Tim fucking Roth; he's far less of a fucked-up headcase than I am!
My legs won't hold me up any longer, and I sink to a sitting position on the floor, surrounded by shards and splinters of broken bottles. An almost overwhelming feeling of despair I can't control washes over me and I put my head in my hands. I have to force myself to the point of nausea not to cry. I won't cry, I won't cry over her... Not this time...
This isn't working... I pick up one of the shards of glass, staring at it, contemplating running it across my wrist here and now, ending it all. Then I think of Tim, with his huge haunted eyes, and how he needs a score for his fucking film. I can't screw him over like this. Instead I drive the glass as hard as I can into my arm, hissing in pain. I do it again, and again, until the urge to cry has gone. Fuck, I can't believe I've been so stupid as to lose my heart to someone who doens't care for me...
Again.
Chapter 43 ; Contents ; Chapter 45
