Die Without You - L.P

Psychology

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"When exactly did your addiction start?"

Amy slumped in her seat and ran a hand through her unruly curls. She glued her gaze to the counter and inspected the whorls etched in the wood, dark swirls on a light background. Beautiful and plain, familiar and new. She'd rather study this pattern than be engaged in this conversation.

"I. Am. Not. Addicted." Perhaps if she said it slowly and firmly enough it would penetrate his thick skull and remain there.

"The longer you've been doing this, the harder it will be to stop. We have to factor in the length of your addiction."

This was the fourth night in two weeks that this exasperating boy had sat down with her and attempted to "fix" her. She refused to address him by his name. He was a psychology major, he told her, and couldn't help himself when it came to troubled people. She'd almost socked him in the neck when he referred to her that way.

Every day he talked her though a mini therapy session, prying into the most hidden pockets of her life, sticking his nose where it certainly didn't belong. She couldn't stand him, but she couldn't leave. This was the only place in town that would serve her liquor, and going without alcohol was not an option.

She wanted to scream. To release all the frustration and grief and anger that weighed her down every day as it expanded. To yell and shout until her voice gave out and this idiotic stranger was deaf. But the middle aged men and women of the town had already settled in and were being served by a George who pointedly avoided her gaze. She knew that most of them would probably suffer mild heart attacks if she went through with it.

So instead she had to be content with shoving her face in her frigid hands and praying for this pest to slither away.

"I mean, just tonight, you've already had five glasses of hard liquor."

"Because you won't leave me alone."

"Well, I can't just sit here and watch you destroy your liver."

"My liver is fine."

"Not with the amount of alcohol you're consuming. You drink over three glasses most nights."

She slowly lifted her head and turned to face him, staring him down with those unnerving, blank eyes.

"How would you know that?" She spoke the words languidly, as if savoring each letter before pushing them out of her mouth.

Liam blushed and looked at his hands which rested on the counter. He picked up a spare napkin and folded it methodically into the tiniest square possible. "Um, I've been sorta watching you," he mumbled after a moment's hesitation.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not as creepy as I sound." He rushed to defend himself. "I just like watching people."

"That still sounds creepy," she scoffed, causing the red in his cheeks to deepen.

"It's not!" he protested. "You can tell a lot about someone just by observing them."

Something about this statement, spoken so casually, made her furious. You couldn't just assume that you knew someone through subtle outward signs and passing glances. That was barely enough to register someone's existence, much less comprehend it.

"Like that woman over there." He was still talking and pointing to Mrs. Olsen, the friendly woman who worked as the head librarian. She was nice enough, if not a bit naive.

"What about her?" She swallowed another gulp of liquor and closed her eyes as it washed down her throat, coating her insides with liquid fire. It was the best feeling on earth.