Even Heroes Have Scars

[88] Sober

NOTE: Trigger Warning: substances, alcohol

Demi's P.O.V.

When I was a teenager, I was quick to become a substance abuser. Not the kind that downed a complete bottle of wine after work every day or didn't know when I'd had enough tequila shots – no, I was the kind that bribed the older kids around me to purchase and smuggle a vodka bottle for me to conceal in Sprite bottles, the kind that would sometimes trade sex for substances and not even remember it the next morning, the kind who was still drunk at eight in the morning from the party the night before and continued to drink that anyway, only to vomit it all up in a limousine on the way to perform live on Good Morning America. I was blackout drunk or high a solid sixty-percent of the time. I required a lack of sobriety to project me into an intoxicated state of oblivion. I wanted to feel everything and nothing all at once. I wanted to be anything except what I was. And I achieved that time and time again, though it never felt as good as I wanted it to. So I finally quit.

But because I was one of those people that got sober before I was even technically old enough to drink, I'd never strolled through a liquor store before. In fact, I didn't even know what brands were good, 'cause I always chose to down the hard stuff, paying no mind to labels as long as it fucked me up for a few hours. And now, more than half a decade later, I perused all of the different aisles, keeping my head down to avoid being recognized.

"Need help finding anything?" the clerk asked from behind the counter.

He was an older guy, looked like he smelled of musty cigarettes and cheap whiskey. The stains splattered across his shirt and pants hinted that he was a rough man, and the cowboy buckle on his belt led me to believe that this guy probably had a gun behind the counter in case of robberies or just straight up annoyance. I needed to play into his good graces to stay safe. After all, I'd driven to a store just outside of L.A. to hopefully avoid anyone I knew. This guy looked like he came out of Texas himself.

I nodded. "What's the best bottle of red I can get with a twenty?" I requested, eyes glossing over every different brand of wine.

Had to use cash. Card would leave a paper trail, and Mike and Phil would leave me if they found out.

"Depends on what you consider best: taste or feel?" he questioned.

"Feel, definitely," I stated, knowing I could easily throw it back if it didn't taste good; I needed something to ease my constant discomfort, so light stuff wouldn't do shit for me. "Whatever I can feel the fastest."

The man abandoned his spot from behind the counter and approached me, lifting a bottle off of the rack. "This one, for sure. My wife's personal favorite when she wants to get a little loose. This gonna be all for ya?"

I nodded and followed him back to the counter where he rung up my bottle. I gave him the twenty dollar bill from my pocket.

"Got I.D.?"

I shuffled through my purse to retrieve my I.D. Maybe I should've invested in a Fake. Sure, it could've put me at risk of getting caught by the police for having false identification, but then I could've at least avoided the look this man gave me when he silently read my real name off the card.

"Hey, aren't you...?" he started, but he quieted himself when I placed a finger over my lips to silence him. He gave me the I.D. back and handed me my change and the bottle in a brown plastic bag. "Thanks for coming in. Hope you have a great day."

The entire scenario occurred in less than three minutes. In and out, quickly. And then I was home, staring at the bottle on my counter. My stomach churned as I read the label over and over again.