Liza's POV

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"I'm sorry. We'll be back tomorrow. But, you're on your own tonight," my mom finished. I shrug, pulling my blanket back up to my chin. I roll over, facing away from her. "We'll have David come check in on you later tonight. He seems like a good kid," she said.

"I'll be fine. Don't tell him to come," I grumble. The last thing I want to do right now is see David.

"Well, we've never left you alone overnight. There's dinner in the fridge. Don't do anything crazy, okay?" she said. I could tell she was concerned, but I wasn't in the mood to care. I wait for her to walk away. Listening to the sound of the door, I hear them leave. I turn over onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. I sit up and slide my feet to the ground. Wrapping my comforter around me, I slowly trudge downstairs.

Opening the fridge, I pick up the salad my parents left for me. My stomach turns over, and I put it back, not feeling hungry. I open the freezer and see a pint of ice cream. I reach for it, wondering if it would actually help, like in the movies. I lumber across the kitchen and grab a spoon. Feeling no need to follow my father's rules, I take a seat on the couch and click on the tv. I start flipping through channels. Hallmark is playing The Notebook, and I roll my eyes.

Scooping out a bite of the mint chocolate chip, I select The Blair Witch Project. I glare at the TV, eating more ice cream. Eventually, I get bored of the movie and decide not to finish the pint, deciding it would just make me sick anyway. A dull pain shows up in my lower stomach, and I groan, wondering why I thought it was smart to eat ice cream with lactose intolerance. I pull out my phone and browse the web. Walking over to the freezer, I put the frozen dessert back. As I'm closing the door, I notice a bottle of golden liquid.

My mind flashes back to the party, where this same drink was what started the pandemonium. I wrap my hand around the neck of the bottle and pull it out. Something overcomes me, making me determined not to shy away this time. It almost feels like vengeance. Feeling rebellious, I walk over to the cabinet and pull out a shot glass. I carry the glass and Fireball with me to the table, away from the camera my dad installed.

My heart starts to race, realizing this could end very badly. But, I'm determined to break my good reputation. If I hadn't been such a little bitch the first time, Gabbie might still be here. Filled with rage, I rip the cap off and fill the petite cup with alcohol. I slam the bottle back down, bring the glass to my lips, and try to down the liquid. A searing pain fills my mouth and throat. Coughing, I look down and realize I barely drank half of it. Trying to contain myself, I take a deep breath and swallow the rest.

I've heard plenty of times that it takes longer than you think for the alcohol to kick in. But, I need an escape hatch now. I fill another glass full. Conviction across my face, I down another shot, finishing it in one gulp this time. My eyes water a little from the pain, but the exhilaration overrules that. I throw back shot after shot, waiting for the effect to hit.

After about five drinks, I start to feel woozy, and my movements become more fumbled. After a few more minutes, I hear a noise towards the front of the house. Footsteps grow nearer, and I wipe spilled liquor off my chin.

"Liza?" I hear David called into the house.

"David," I say, slurring my words. "I told you not to come here." I hiccup a little and try to stand up. Staggering over, I try to push him out. I trip over my own feet, and he catches me. Giggling, I grin up at him. He looks away, coughing a little. He sees the Fireball, and his eyes widen a little.

"Liza, have you been drinking?" he asks, astonished.

"Just a little," I smile, trying to stand back up. "Wanna join?"

"No! I'm supposed to be making sure you aren't getting into trouble, and I come here to find you completely wasted!" He wraps one of my arms around his shoulder, hoisting me over to the living room. "What the hell were you thinking Liza?" he questions. I don't want to tell him, but I also have the urge to spill all of my secrets. My drunk self decides to choose the latter.

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