the other side of us | ✓

2.6 | whiskey and red wine

One and a half years ago

The fact that Mason was waking up on the floor was no surprise. What was surprising was the pain in his shoulder, and the fact that when his blurry vision came into focus, he was staring at the metal bars of a jail cell.

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

Someone cleared their throat, and Mason looked up, wincing at the bright lights. The guard standing in front of him was older, and he looked thoroughly tired of Mason.

"Alright, Jerry?" Mason greeted. "Been a while since I last saw you."

"It's been four days, Carlyle." Jerry said, disappointed. Mason frowned. The days had been blurring together – he could've sworn it had been longer than that.

"You sure? S'all the same to me."

Jerry leaned down to where Mason was sitting on the floor, and it struck Mason that he'd never noticed how old the man in front of him was. The amount of times Jerry had thrown Mason into this cell, you'd think he would have. Jerry could practically be his grandfather.

"You need help, kid."

Mason rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, pops."

Jerry raised an eyebrow, and Mason sighed. "I'm handling it, okay? I'm fine."

"You're not fine. I've got these," Jerry showed Mason a handful of brochures, all containing some variation of 'It's not too late' or 'The Long Road to Recovery' and he rolled his eyes again.

"I'm not an alcoholic, old man. Just because I get trashed sometimes –"

"That's your business. The only person who can decide what's best for you, is you. But I'd hate to see you end up dead when I coulda said something."

Mason grudgingly took the pamphlets from him, resolving to throw them away the second he was released from his cell. Jerry surprised him though. Instead of unlocking the door, he turned and sat back down at the desk.

"Jer? What the hell man? Let me out."

"Why?" Jerry snorted. "Just to see you again in twelve hours?"

Mason groaned. "Come on, I'll go straight home."

"Yeah, sure you will." Jerry picked up the book sitting on his desk and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up. "You've got four hours, kid. I'd do some reflecting if I were you."

*

The puddle of vomit in the corner wasn't helping Mason's queasy stomach, and he clenched his teeth as he looked away from it.

"Sorry," He called to the janitor who'd had the unfortunate task of working today. Jerry shook his head.

"You aren't sorry, kid. If you were sorry, you wouldn't be here."

Mason groaned and leaned his head against the wall. His hangover was a dull ache now, and with its absence came the thoughts that he tried so desperately to avoid.

Tara's illness, and her readiness to die.

Gemma depression, the fact that Mason couldn't do anything about it.

His fault.

The fact that he never seemed to be able to help anyone.

He hadn't been this sober in months.

"Kid?"

His chest tightened, and he breathed shallowly as he tried to keep the wave of emotion at bay.