Expelled and needing to transfer for his final year, Liam had known immediately where to go. It was the place that'd taken everything from him; that'd ruined him so absolutely it'd twisted his personality beyond recognition.
The place where he'd met...
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Vodka.
ㅤVodka was saved for only the most special of occasions, and this one would prove to be a highlight for Charlie.
ㅤWith the poison soaking through the fuzzy exterior of his body, it gave his dampened mind a step back to think without the noise. As his finger circled the endless loop of his glass, he had the peace to gather his thoughts into a straight, sensical line.
ㅤHe'd wallowed in this drunken temper for two nights and a day, suspended in a state that was both intoxicated and hungover at once. Stretched thinly between high and low—all so he could think... and make sense of what'd happened.
ㅤRowan marked the lowest point of his life.
ㅤAn innocent boy he'd pushed down those stairs in a whipped up rage—fuelled by a bleeding, fearful, ravenous envy. It was a jealousy that'd possessed him because he'd wanted it.
ㅤRowan was no longer the kind, smiling boy who wanted to be his friend; he became a symbol. He was the revolting symbol of what Charlie never had, and a constant reminder of what he would become. A fate like his father's.
ㅤIn truth, he'd been disgusted—that devout smile and bright eye. As a boy, it'd inspired only dread. So he'd needed to get it out of his system, urgently. He refused to become like his father, and so he sought to destroy what caused those ugly feelings. He would rebel against it. Refuse to be that monster. Never.
ㅤAnd that was the very thing that sealed it.
ㅤHe'd attacked Rowan like he were the priest that laid out his fate for him, as if smothering that sweet smile would extinguish Charlie's constant fear.
ㅤTo him, who knew only of violence, Rowan's bold honesty was aggressive. It intimidated him more than anything else. Thus he'd been so blinded by the dread, the disgust, the envy, that he'd already become the very thing he thought he was refusing to be.
ㅤRowan was never a symbol for anything. He was a person. A boy.
ㅤBut by the time Charlie had come to his senses and recognised that, it'd already been too late.
ㅤThat child had already been chewed up in the hell Charlie designed, and was spat out at the other end, at the bottom of the stairs. It was karma's twisted sense of humour that he'd turned into a monster out of fear of becoming one.
ㅤThe ice in his glass clicked, glass misting with condensation. His fingers left clear, absent prints. See-through. He contemplated the windows of transparency left by his hand. The vodka within was crystal.
ㅤGood and evil. Black and white. Defined categories stopping and starting at a solid, uncompromising line. Charlie had never been convinced by it, nor had he been confident identifying them. He'd known far too many horrible people who'd helped him when he'd needed it most. Even his father, a terrorist to him and his siblings, still paid for the roof over their heads and the food they ate. The typical dichotomy which was amongst the first things a child learnt, was something he never knew. The very first, and only, time that he thought he might've finally encountered evil in its truest, honest form, was something that he himself did.
