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by punctuated

by punctuated

preston

there's a knock at his door. he doesn't answer.

the bottle of vodka is empty, and he's found one of his dad's bottles of scotch from the liquor cabinet, nursing it.

he can barely see straight, and his thoughts are jumbled, unable to form a coherent sentence, yet it doesn't really matter.

"preston?" vivian asks through the door.

panic runs through him. she can't see him like this, but he can't stop, he needs to get away from his father, he needs to get away from everything—

"i have the key, i'm coming in."

he scrambles for the trashcan to hide the evidence, yet he isn't fast enough; the vodka bottle hits the wooden floor and shatters, right as vivian opens the door.