500 Days || phan

Day 8

day 8,

is alcohol food?

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i woke up with a hangover and a horrible headache. my stomach barely waited for me to get to the bathroom before projecting all the contents of it into the toilet.

i groaned, resting my head on the sink for a moment, before flushing it and brushing my teeth.

i looked at the clock on the wall, it read 2:27pm. i sighed, my life wouldn't end fast enough if these damn hours kept going by so damn slowly. going to the cabinets in the kitchen, i pulled out another bottle of vodka.

there were only 3 more left, then i'd have to drink whatever else i'd bought yesterday.

walking back to my room, i saw a pack of cigarettes one of my family members must have left behind on the table in the lounge. 

i shrugged, grabbing them. why not? i thought as i put one to my mouth and lit it with a lighter that was in the pack. it burnt my lungs going in, and even more going out, but it helped somehow.

coughing a little, i remembered the first time i'd taken a drag of a cigarette. it was his, when he tried it all those years ago. i knew i wouldn't get addicted to them, if anything i'd just finish the last 3 in this pack while i drank my life away.

and that's exactly what i did, i drank for the rest of the night, smoking two of the cigarettes. and then i pasted out at nearly midnight, waking up only to puke, drink more, smoke, and write another stupid text to his phone.

is this really what my life is now? i torture myself, trying to forget, but only remembering more. i can't sleep, unless i cry until i can't anymore. i'm ignoring my family. i'm not eating, unless alcohol counts, which it doesn't. i'm getting skinnier, not fitting into my jeans. i can't do anything without remembering more, and drinking to forget.

i'm remembering things i shouldn't. like what i was thinking when i met him, and how i felt when he gave me the ring. how he looked 6 years ago, and how he looked in paris. how it felt when he kissed me on the roller coaster, so long ago, and how he held my hand less than a week ago.

i feel like how he did when we met. he felt as though he wasn't worth it. but fuck, he still is, even though he's gone.

and trust me, i'd go to him, right now, i'd do it, but he would hate me. if he were here, he'd slap me, telling me i'm crazy, and it wouldn't hurt, but it does, so much, because he can't.

i screamed, punching the door, making an audible cracking noise, but showing no damage. i threw the empty bottles at the ground, picking up a piece and pressing it to my wrist, but nothing happened. i didn't push it, or slice my skin. i didn't do anything but breakdown in a puddle of tears on the floor.

i didn't care about the little bit of alcohol or the pieces of glass lying around me, i just cried.

and that's where i woke up, because yes, this really is what my life is now...