I Dont Do Too Well On My Own

The Thirteenth Chapter

0 days sober and sex free

Okay, maybe I fucked up just a little bit...

Maybe I dont do too well on my own.

"Babe?" Someone asks as I sit up in the mass of the pillows and blankets.

I turn to look at him. Blonde hair swept across his face, thick defined eyebrows. Not the type of guy to be in this 'business'. I look at his hopeful face and cant help but burst into tears. I stick my head between my knees and cry. I fucked up. 3 days! I was 3 days sober!

"Oh GOD I fucked up." I sob into my legs.

The guy just sits there awkwardly and waits for a reason to leave.

"I fucked up so much and it was going so well!" I tell him, pulling an ugly face because of the tears.

He gives me a confused look but I ignore him.

"You gotta be prepared for this kind of thing when you join in this business." I mumble.

I need to save this all for later, when I apologise. I need to get through today and then I can go and distract myself. I bottle it up.

"Ive got work so Im going to leave now." I dry my eyes quickly.

I stand and wobble to the door, scooping up my stuff on the way. "Can I have your number?" He asks quietly.

"Im sorry. Forget this, okay?"

He is still staring.

"Good."

I slam the door after me.

I work the whole day in silence, torturing my mind with what Ive done. I ignore Jasmine and count down the hours until I can leave.

I dont speak a single word until I reach Patricks door that night. Jasmine doesnt pester me, I think she think she has 'been there'. But if being there is on the same road, Im fifty miles down from her in a car crash.

"I fucked up." I say quietly when Patrick finally opens the door. "I cant do this."

I dont dare look at his face. Its going to be the face of disappointment. Im the new face of failure.

"Im so sorry."

I feel a hand on my back, pushing me inside the house. I let it push me forward and sit me on the sofa. The minute he sits down I collapse onto him for a hug. I try and hide my dry sobbing but I feel horrible this time. Usually after my usual night I feel like I helped someone, right now I feel used and disgusting.

"Im so sorry Patrick. Im sorry."

"Hey, hey! What happened?" He asks.

"I cant do it. I woke up in someones bed..." I sit back to look at him.

"Your streak is over?"

I nod violently, "One thing lead to another... I cant stop myself when I have nothing to do."

"Im still here... We can sort something out. We can fix this."

"Can I just chill here for a little, I dont want to talk to anyone else and-"

"No need to ask. Youre always welcome."

I lean forward on my knees after muttering thanks.

"Pete!" Patrick yells.

"What?" Pete yells back.

"Get over here please!"

Pete storms down the stairs, slowing when he sees me.

"Can we add you to the collection?" Patrick smiles.

I outline Pete as quickly as I can as Pete has no patience. He squirms on the spot and I tell him off for moving. He posed slightly more dramatically than Patrick, but maybe thats just how he is.

"So, how do you know about this little project, slash Greek myth?" Patrick asks.

I stop outlining, letting my hand drop. How do I answer that without raising concern? "I learnt it when I was younger."

"They do say things keep repeating, like a cycle." Pete notes.

"Who taught you it?" Patrick asks.

I finish Petes outline. "Just... Urm? My? ... I dont want to talk about it..."

Pete moves out the way and Patrick opens another tin of paint.

"You sure?" Patrick perseveres.

I nod violently, forcing my paintbrush into the pot of paint. I swirl it around the grey silver paint until it is fully coated.

I ignore the stirring feeling in my abdomen and lean towards the wall. Petes swirls are in his hands and head. The swirls are what is special about them, where their talent comes from. So Pete, has talented hands... And not in that way. He can write beautifully and play well, using his hands.

Patrick seems wary as he edges closer. He paints the swirls in Petes head silently.

"So," Pete says casually, "why you round here so early... By a day or two?"

I look up and meet his eyes. Theres a moment where I really try and hold it together. His eyes hold innocence and wonder and then I cant help it. Water spills over the edge of my eyes and I drop the paintbrush. I force my head to the floor quickly, not properly working out where the floor is and hitting my head on the wood. I try and get as close to the floor as I can and hope for it to suck me into the ground.

"Its because I cant control myself and am an ugly stupid slut." I say, face pressed to the floor. "I fucked up and I was doing so well."

The floor is cold against my face but I dont care.

"Why is this all so fucked up?"