Die Without You - L.P

Mistakes

The bar felt colder today. A light draft swirled around her, raising goosebumps on her arms and ruffling the tips of her curls. Maybe George had turned down the heat today. She didn't like it. The chill was too biting, too startling for her to feel comfortable. She needed to slowly slip into silky, hazy warmth as she drank her troubles away. She could already imagine how much less pleasurable each golden glass would taste.

Perhaps he'd done this on purpose. By now, George was intimate with her drinking patterns and preferences. And even now, he wouldn't quit using supposedly clever, underhanded methods of getting her to stop. But he was going about it all wrong.

She didn't want him to try and trick her, to lead her into an inescapable trap of recovery. She only wanted him to be there for her. Because no one else was, at least not in the way she needed. They kept trying to "fix" her when they weren't even on the verge of comprehending her problem. They didn't understand; no one did, and it only made her want to sink deeper into suffocating depression.

The glass in front of her was going to get warm, at least too warm to drink. She tentatively wrapped her long fingers around the thin, smooth handle of the cup and tipped it back. A cool gulp washed down her throat and she closed her eyes briefly. This was killing her softly and slowly, and she couldn't even care.

She heard the door open with a click and shifted so that she was facing the front. It was Liam. Sighing, she turned back around and cupped her chin in her icy hands. She'd been hoping to spend the night in solitary. Joyless had forced her into yet another discussion with her about the pub, and her sharp, hissing tone was indication enough of one clear fact. She needed to stop.

But of course it could never be that easy. Maybe, she mused with a little smile, she could convince George to set up an alcohol delivery service. It would certainly save her a drive.

"What are you smiling about?" Liam asked cheerfully as he plopped down on the stool adjacent to hers. As usual, he looked happy, so much so that she could feel nausea bubbling up amidst her tangled intestines.

"Nothing," she grumbled, pleasant thoughts abruptly banished.

"I almost never see you smile," he remarked. "We must be making progress."

She snorted derisively. Progress wasn't what she would call it. He was still just as irritating as the first day. But admittedly, something had shifted infinitesimally within her. Small fragments of the crippling pain had been peeled away, revealing a hollow numbness that seemed to consume her lungs and limbs. She could feel nothing now. But it was somehow better than the grief she'd constantly been subjected to, at least in small doses.

"So tell me," he began, clasping his fingers together. He was trying entirely too hard to appear solemn and professional. It was so at odds with his usual personality that she almost smiled again. But she quickly suppressed it before he could take notice.

"How's your day been?" He asked the same question each day.

"Shitty," she muttered, and of course, he grinned.

"Care to explain?"

Actually, she didn't. But she was well aware of how persistent he could be. Reluctantly, she acceded to his question and tapped her fingers on the smooth, fading wood in a discordant rhythm. Tap, tap, tap.

"Well, first of all, you're here." He simply smirked in reply, unbothered. "And..."

Now, she hesitated, and he stared down at her in a strange way. Not exactly expectant, but... patient. He would sit here until dawn wrapped its rosy fingers around the sky; that much she was sure of. Maybe she should tell him what had occurred today. She was bursting with things to say, tales to tell, words to speak. She'd kept it all in because no could understand. But how would she ever find someone who could if she didn't at least make an attempt?