REDAMANCY [h.s. au]

07

*mentions of binge drinking and
poor mental health

"And life went on. It was not the same.
But it went on."
- storydj

⭑Holland⭑

Cursing myself, I drag my body into the bookstore, feeling like I'm inches away from collapsing onto the floor. A pounding head and regret, I chug some water and take a bite of the greasy breakfast sandwich I bought down the street, even if I'm at risk of vomiting it all up.

Zoey's annoyingly cheerful voice cuts through straight to my head, making the pounding more violent. "What did you do last night? You look like hell," she comments with a laugh.

Setting my bag down behind the counter, I sigh-so tired I can barely come up with a coherent response to Zoey. I close my eyes and massage my temple, trying anything to relieve an ounce of the pressure. "I feel like hell," is all I can manage to say.

"Why'd you go out last night? And why didn't you invite me?" Zoey questions, hands on her hips.

"It was super last minute." Standing in front of the computer with a blank stare, it's like I've forgotten how to work. It takes me a minute before my brain catches up and I'm typing the password in, going straight to my emails.

"Where'd you you? Who'd you go with?" She interrogates, like a mother questioning her child.

There's a part of me that feels guilty for not telling her, or anyone, that I was going out. I know I should at least warn one person, in case anything were to happen to me. But how was I supposed to tell my best friend that I was going out because a text from my ex triggered me into a binge drinking spiral? She would've told me to stay home and hangout with her instead. I didn't want that. I wanted to be reckless-to mask my problems with alcohol and a warm body.

And it didn't even work. The alcohol and the boy magnetized my problems. I was left clutching a bathroom sink for stability and the person who I wanted to forgets name banging against my head with each thump of the loud base coming from outside the doors.

"Just went to the bar down the street and met this guy named James. He took me to the club. That's it," I tell her with a nonchalant shrug, not divulging all the details.

"Okay, well I'm glad he didn't fucking murder you, Holland," she shakes her head disapprovingly. "You need to be safe! Did you sleep with him?"

"No, mother. I didn't sleep with him," I scoff, all the water I've consumed and the breakfast sandwich breathing a semblance of life back into me.

"Please tell me next time. We can't have anything happening to you," she replies softly, all of the joking aside now.

What's the worst thing that could happen to me when I'm already so hurt? Already so beyond repair?

Sometimes I'm convinced if someone were to peer inside of my chest, it'd just be a black hole of undistinguishable brokenness. Nothing salvageable.

"I promise I'll let you know next time," I mutter to Zoey just to get her off my back.

"Was this James guy hot at least?" She asks, the lightheartedness now back in her tone as she rearranges the top shelf of poetry and essays section.

I sift through emails, the brightness of the screen worsening my already pounding head. "He was cute," I shrug, "not my type, but conventionally attractive, I guess."

He was the kind of cookie-cutter attractive. A generic beauty. His lack of depth or personality didn't help at all, either. That was the thing about Harry that made me absolutely crazy for him back when we first met, when I was nineteen and he was twenty one-he was impossibly handsome, but so sweet, so funny, so smart, so good. Unfortunately, two years later he'd prove to me that the only thing he truly ever was was something nice to look at. That he was like every other man; all they know is how to leave.