Past

one

I sit on my bed, my eyes fixated on the ceiling. My hand is reaching out for another glass of vodka - even though I know it'll just do bad, it feels good all the same. A few swigs is all it takes to forget about everything, anything. The pain is still as raw - the metallic, familiar taste of blood sits on my taste-buds as my lip cuts open slightly from the rough edges of glass. Not again, I groan. It's 4:38 AM and I'm now laying down on my bed, wide awake. I look to the room and see pictures of my family smiling in the frame I keep privately; my blood boils, my grip becoming harder on the vodka bottle I have. The anger beats me, my strength is poured out as the bottle hits the wall, a echoing shattering sound filling the air as I scream out, my hand going through into the wall - there's no going back now. Once I'm angry, I can't stop. The walls dented, broken - just like me.