The Thistles of Rose

9 • Angry

♚Luca♚

I strangle the bottle of Scotch with my hand and bring it up to my lips as her green eyes deflate. I don't know how many of these I've had but I'm not drunk enough to handle the heartache in her eyes.

Alcohol was the only thing that kept me sane, kept me from falling apart. Then, I met her and I wanted to be better for her. I didn't want her to have to deal with my drunk tantrums so I haven't been hammered until now.

But it's difficult to use her to escape a fucking problem she created.

"I'm so sorry," her voice cracks and her eyes fill with unshed tears. Fuck, I hate it when she cries.

My heart urges; comfort her, comfort her, comfort her. But, my drunken mind protests this idea; don't do it, it's her fault, she's victimising herself.

Harshly, I gulp the alcohol to dissipate my anger. I need to get the fuck out of here before I do or say something to her that I'll regret later when I'm sober.

"No wait," she blocks my path with her teary, doe eyes, "please talk to me. It already breaks my heart seeing you like this, Luca."

She's hurting because of me. But you're hurting because of her.

My mind is under hypnotism that puts me at the centre of it and yanks out my heart. I don't have control over what I say — the alcohol talks for me.

"Get out of my way," I tell her in the politest tone I can muster but it comes out gruff and rude.

"Just...let me check if there's glass in your hand. Please," she trembles in fear or concern, I don't know. Her voice mirrors desperation, her pretty eyes are large and her lips are frowning as if she's begging me to let her fix me up.

Let her. Don't.

She loves me. She didn't mean to hurt me. She was being selfish.

No, she wasn't. There's no point in comparing both of our traumas because we don't know the extent of what the other went through.

Slowly, I nod and she exhales, shudderingly, leading me to our bathroom.

She puts the toilet seat down and pats the spot for me to sit while she rummages in the cupboard. My exhausted muscles slump against the cold, tiled wall and I take occasional sips from the bottle in hand.

Rosa pulls up a stool next to me and inspects my bloodied hand, tending to it. My pain receptors have numbed and I can't feel a fucking thing except for the way her touch sparks through me.

I'm lost behind the thick, grey clouds of a brewing storm and with every breath, every movement of hers she rescues me to an island reserved for us.

It's a sad, lonely island with large sea stacks caging you in. How can you live a life with just you and her?

Get the fuck out of my head.

Urgently, I gulp down another large sip of Scotch and she observes me. Her emerald eyes glisten with emotion. Hurt, anger, love, concern, loss; all the things I feel right now.

Fuck, she's truly hurting seeing me like this.

She's the reason you're like this.

My eyes screw shut in agony, trying to scrub that demon from my mind.

"Hey, hey," she grabs my face in her hands, "it's okay. I'm here. I'm here."

I rest my forehead on her chest, absorbed in the tune of her heartbeat. Meanwhile, she places her hands on my aching neck and kisses the top of my head. Her smell is as refreshing as a breeze in summer and it's exactly what I needed after drowning in two bottles of alcohol.