What could have been.

- Chapter 46 -

“Are you ready?” Joseph asks impatiently.

“I would be ready if you arrived on time.” I rush out while squeezing into a strapless black dress I borrowed from Eden. 

“I’m on time.”

“You’re early.” My tone is flat. I hate when he arrives to pick me up earlier than we agreed. It always ends the same. He lays on my bed, tries to watch a video on his phone, becomes bored from waiting then starts rushing me. 

Most of the time, if I know we're heading to a party, or his frat is hosting one I'd bring a bag over after my lecture and get ready at his but sometimes I miss my own space. 
I spent half the week at the frat house, I needed this afternoon/ evening to myself to get ready. But no, we agreed on 7 and here he is, in my room at 5:45 pm. 

I can hear him huffing, trying to get my attention. I keep my back to him while I put on my converse, sitting on the edge of my bed. Joseph sits up, scooting to the end, he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me up onto him. A loud involuntary squeal leaves my lips. “Don’t be mad.” He whispers into my ear. I sigh, smiling, I look up at him. “I’m not.” I lie. I rest my head on his chest and he places a kiss on the top of my head. “I love you, Sienna.” My chest tightens. Lifting my head again, I meet his eyes, his beautiful brown eyes. “I love you too.” Leaning up, I kiss him. His hands thread through my hair and I pull back. “But...” I linger, hovering near his lips. “Show up at the time we agreed.” He breathes out a laugh and pulls me back to his lips, running his hand through my hair.

....

The world can appear incredible dim during heartbreak. I’m no superhuman but I expected more, I had expected to find strength somewhere to pull myself out of where I am now. 

I have no intention of pretending I’m not hurt, sad, or every other emotion that portrays the ache I feel everywhere. But I expected to be ok after a day or two because I had been. In the past, I made it out of bed looking ready to face the day while I internally cried. 

I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t see a passing point where I don’t want to scream for anyone, everyone to shut up that tries to tell me ‘It'll all be OK.’ 

Will it? 

Be, ok?

When? 

I want to be ok. I was close to being more than ok. 

I take in a deep breath. 

I try to rack my brain for any solution that will help me claw my way out of whatever dark pit I’m in.

Maybe I need a time frame. 

That’s what I’ll do. 

I need to get through this and to do that I need to give myself time. Not too much. If I carry on down the route I’m heading, I’ll be lost to sadness. 

One more week. 

But it’s already been two...

What’s one more week then? 

Nothing. 

One more week of this. My eyes rack down my body. Day three of not showering. One week of bed hair. Black silk shorts and White crop that I’ve had on for three days hiding under my bed cover. 

“One more week,” I tell myself out loud. 

I take in a steady breath as butterflies- those damn butterflies swarm my chest. If I knew a way to get rid of this feeling forever, I’d sell half my soul to retrieve it. 

Sharp pain in my chest causes me to sit up and cough out a strangled breath. 

I need help.

“Serious help.” I breathe out, hand still resting over my chest. 

My throat dry, my voice raspy, I say “I need to forget.” Just for today. 

They’ll all be home in three hours. Eden, Jocelyn and Cole will be here, in my room, doing all they can to be there for me and stubbornly my mind won’t accept their efforts. My mind will use my friends and my...Cole as a reminder of how can I begin to trust anyone again? 
My hand rises from my chest and wraps gently around my throat. 

I need a drink. 

Almost like a light bulb in my head goes off, I piece together my two dilemmas. 

“Whiskey.” I whisper.

Just two glasses.

While everyone is out. They won’t know. They'll be happy to see me out of bed. Out of my room even. 

Two. 

Then I’ll shower. 

Who needs another week with this plan? Not me. 

I’ll get out of bed in a minute. 

To have a drink. 

My eyes shut.

My breathing slows.

My hands cling to the sheets ready to pull it off my body on the count of three. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.
 
I’m up.

I feel sick. 

Maybe I got up too quickly. 
That must be why my head feels so heavy. 

I must be dehydrated too.

“I need a drink.” A little voice in my head says.

A pull darts me out of my room, down the corridor, leaving me in front of the liquor cabinet. 

Just two, I remind myself.

Opening the cabinet below, reaching for my favourite mug, I pour myself a drink. 

One sip leaves the mug half full. My second sip finishes what remained in my mug. 

One more drink and I’m done. I take a sip to prevent the liquor from spilling over. Leaning down, my lips meet the brim of my blue-coloured mug that I hand-painted to look like a night sky. 

I move over to the bar stool. Carefully, taking sips as I do so to avoid any spillage. 

The burning from the liquor trailing down my throat is satisfying enough to tempt me with a third drink. 

Just one more. 

What’s one more drink? 

Nothing. 

I lean over the counter, grab the liquor by the neck of the bottle and pour myself another drink.

Third and final one. 

This is my last drink then I’ll try to do something, anything.

They’ll be so happy to see me out of my room. I smile at the thought of seeing their surprised faces when they see me out of my room. 

They’ll be so happy. 

I know it.