Shackles

3

"Drink it!"

"No!" I spit back, staring down at the shot of straight vodka.

"Come on!"

My lungs grow heavy and contract the air out from my body as I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the shot glass with sweaty fingers and knocking it back. My fourth shot. It's immediately followed down by a large gulp of cheap wine, and by cheap I mean two quid. Bargain, I say.

At this stage of my life, as a student, I can't really be picky with my alcohol because money is such a tight thing. My student loan covers less than two thirds of my accommodation bills and I haven't yet got a job. I'm being strict with myself and so far it's paying off, so it would be stupid of me to complain about a wine not being tasteful enough.

My eyes open again, powered by a fire after the rough vodka had trickled down my throat.

"You're sick," I say, deadfaced.

Jade just smiles back at me from across her kitchen table, where her flatmates do various things in the background.

"No, I'm just making sure tonight's a good night!" she exclaims, a slight slur to her words.

"Peer pressure is bad, we all learnt that in school," I scold, flicking my hair behind my shoulders.

"Oh Fliss, we all knew you'd end up drinking that shot anyway, it was just a bit of encouragement."

I glare at her, but can't hide the smile tilting the corner of my lips, knowing she's right.

Jade is the friend I met in my course, now we head to every lecture together. It's taking me a few minutes each morning to remind myself that just because I'm making new friends, it doesn't replace my loving friends at home. I really don't know what my issue is, but I need to stop myself because I always end up self sabotaging.

I look into her dark eyes and at her dark hair and smile. It's nice to have a friend around here. The more I stare, the more I begin to feel the effect of that last shot. Her features begin to slide down her face, like melting plastic. Her eyes spin in spirals and her hair becomes a dark sky.

In no time, we were stumbling down a cobbled road in the direction of the club, along with some of her flatmates. We danced, and drank, and drank some more. I watched her make moves on boys as I stood back, missing my boyfriend. And then I'm back in my flat at about three in the morning.

I'm sitting in my kitchen, staring at the oven and watching my potato waffles cook. I would hate to see the state I must look at the moment. I'm sure my hair is a bird's nest and my makeup is smudged to the point my face is unrecognisable.

My head is still spinning and the lights in this kitchen are too white. They're bright and blinding and as Leon enters through the door he looks like an angel under the glow because he's practically illuminated.

He takes a few steps in and then freezes, staring at me. His brows drop and he follows my gaze, slowly looking across to the oven.

"What're you doing?" he asks.

"Cooking."

He looks back at me, basically scowling. "The oven is empty?"

I throw a harsh glare in his direction. "No."

"Yes," he replies.

"You're so dramatic, just leave," I groan, crossing my arms. "You stink of cat piss, too."

He looks genuinely disgusted, lifting his jumper to his nose. Then he drops it and rolls his eyes at me. "That's weed, you idiot."

"Yeah," I reiterate, "Weed smells like cat piss."