** TW: This book is a dark, potentially disturbing story that deals with triggering topics such as mental illness, drug use, SH, and death. Avoid this book if any of these topics are triggering to you. Thank you. -Max **
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Israel Gallego...
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I dreamt about my mom last night. Thirteen years and I'm finally seeing her face again in my sleep. I didn't know it was still so clear in my subconscious. Her dark hair exactly the same length as the last time I saw her. Dark eyes too. Sad, dark eyes.
I dreamt she was sitting at the dinner table in our old two-bedroom house. That's how I knew I was dreaming. She never used to sit at the table to eat. It was the living room loveseat or nowhere. The table was for guests more than it was for her.
She had her cup with leche like always and a handful of Oreos. The cup was blooming with steam while she sat staring out the back patio window. I could've said something, I think. Talked to her again.
I didn't. I don't think, even in my dreams, she would want to talk to me or even see my face. I couldn't blame her either. I carry the guilt of a neglectful kid with me everywhere. Even as a twenty-seven year old it's still there.
You weren't there for your mom, it says.
The hardest you can let someone down . . . that's how hard you let your mom down.
You're not a good friend.
I sit alone in the backroom of the bus. We're set up at the venue for tonight, everyone else is out eating, warming up. I'm staring at a bottle of rum Night left out before falling asleep. It's not full, but it's not empty either.
Four years I've been sober. Over a thousand days without alcohol. It was easy, considering it's been almost five thousand days without searing images of my mom swirling my head around.
Suddenly, four years doesn't seem so impressive. Suddenly, rum sounds like a treat at the end of a hard day instead of a punishment.
All the painful hangovers are insignificant right now. So are the blind hookups, the fits of rage, the reckless behavior. The time I tried to fly out of a moving car just seems like good times to me right now. Two shots and I'd go bungee jumping with no cord.
These tours bring out the worst in me. Not at first. Not in the beginning, but these most recent years have been miserable. The worst. The coldest, most isolating years of my life. I'm including the years after I lost my mom.
Nothing changes.
The tips of my fingers graze the loosening cap of the bottle. The sloshing insides make tempting music.
Honestly, who really cares that much if I have a drink or two? Or three?
I pull the bottle closer to me, but before I can pull the trigger on it Israel's voice comes cutting through the air.
"Are you alright?" he asks from the doorway. He feasts his eyes on this sight.
Me reaching desperately across the table from my seat for a bottle of rum. My hair drapes down into my face and my eyes are watering, bloodshot, and hot. In my head this was all more subtle but in the view of reality it could be concerning.
