Unbecoming

Prologue

Being addicted to something is never a situation I imagined I'd get into when I was a kid. In a sense, my perception of addiction was more or less skewed by believing it meant simply loving a thing so much that it was hard to go without experiencing at least one thing related to it daily, like a favourite musician or a television series that had an actor you admired in it, never once thinking or linking addiction to ecstasy, heroin or weed and in fact, being completely naive to its existence all together.

Now, I'm sitting here drinking old Hennessy and getting doped up on pills, realising nothing felt more like flying than falling so low down to rock bottom that it was like reaching the highest point in your life. And I was never actually fully sober enough to realise how much of a problem that was, not consciouly anyway.

Instead, I let it take me away, replenish any sense of self I had left in the numbness it offered me.

The sun was barely stretching over the horizon when I had sobered up enough to feel everything again. Blacks and blues latched on to the new bleed of oranges, reds and yellows as a new morning began.

I sat at my bedroom window, bottle in hand as the sleepless night settled into my bones, weighing me down with the added liquor that was slowly seeping from me.

My skin, a ghostly pale, raised in goose flesh as the last bite of night air brushed through my room. I was used to this by now; a withering routine of settling down to sleep, failing to do so and sitting at my window with a bottle of whatever was available and easy to grab became like clock work quickly.

On occasion, this routine was interrupted by a slam of the door and heavy footsteps stumbling up the stairs in my house, to which I would have to scramble back into my bed and pretend to be at least a little bit okay, which hardly ever worked and always ended in a black eye or bruised ribs.

But I was used to it.

I was used to having to brace myself against the hand of an unloving father. Only ever present in the marks he left on my body.

Though it wasn't always like this. Hands that now tear apart an already wounded heart once protected it so fiercely, as a father tends to do.

Pictures and memories littered the house, always seeming to wrap me in a false sense of what could have been had my life not completely upended, lulling me into somewhat of a twisted reality whenever I spent the energy to leave my own room.

The man that used to look under the bed for monsters when I was naive enough not to know the real ones waited outside was no longer a part of the man that now wasted away in the shell of who he was.

But this isn't his story.

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AUTHORS NOTE TIME!!!

A short one to start of with but chapters I'll get longer!!

I really hope this first look into what this story could be enticed you enough to keep reading. There is no set update schedule, chapters will come when they can!!

Please ignore the very bad attempt at sounding like an English scholar to. That would be greatly appreciated...

Have a lovely day :)