Right Where We Are

A Chance on Hope

MISAEL-

One part of his brain was screaming that everyone gave up eventually. A calmer part reminded Misael that Luke wasn't ditching him, he just wanted space, wanted to study. But the screaming one made it hard to listen. It made Misael panic and feel like whatever good he'd managed to find was falling apart. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn't shake the thought away.

Or the frustrating self-destructive tendencies gnawing at his brain to get him to shut his overlapping thoughts up.

Luke had said to talk to him if he ever felt upset, but how was Misael supposed to talk to him when he was upset because of him?

He drove to Logan's place and knocked on the door rapidly. Logan opened it, and immediately, guilt coated his features. He opened his mouth and Misael stopped him. "I don't want to hear it," he interrupted. "I just need the bottle of Bailey's in your fridge. Now."

Logan blinked in surprise and let him in. He went to the fridge and grabbed the bottle for him. "Misael, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to hurt-"

"Oh my God," Misael groaned. "I'm not hurt by you, Logan. This isn't about you! It hasn't been for a long time, okay? But next time you want to spread a rumor about sleeping with someone keep my name out of your fucking mouth. And by the way, you and Steph need to cut this on and off bullshit out because even I know it's fucking ridiculous."

Logan's green eyes were wide with shock and his cheeks were pink. He lowered his gaze and nodded solemnly before Misael left, not letting a final apology slip from his mouth. He went back to the university, exchanging his car for his motorcycle and tucked the bottle under the seat.

It was early, but the sky was dark. He went to a dirt road a few miles away. It was often used for lame street races for amateur drivers trying to be the next Vin Diesel. Misael liked it for his motorcycle. He went around it once, getting the feel of the terrain. Then he pulled out the Bailey's and drank from it, setting it down near a tree before kicking off again. He sped up and tried the makeshift ramp, which only resulted in him losing his balance and falling with his motorcycle on top of him.

He groaned, but after taking a few deep breaths, he was able to pull himself up and get going again. He tested his speed, sloppily tried to do tricks, and constantly fell off. He disposed of his jacket, feeling exhilarated with the rush of riding and each time he fell, the rocks would scrape his skin, or his motorcycle would burn him, the metal hot from the engine. Usually, he'd fall a few feet away from his bike, but he didn't mind. And the more he drank the more reckless he became.

Until he became exhausted and was laying down with his motorcycle as a rest. He finished his bottle, but it wasn't as strong as vodka, so he didn't feel as out of control as he had the last time he'd gotten drunk. It didn't help that the bottle hadn't been completely full when he took it. He groaned and looked at the new bruises and scrapes that littered his arms and the tears in his jeans, the dirt that coated him from each fall.

He pulled out his pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit one to calm down and focus. He was a good level of dizzy, close to drunk, but not quite. It would probably fade away in about an hour. He didn't think he could make it back to school, but he wouldn't have minded staying out there in the cold where he couldn't think of anything besides his cigarette, his bike, and his tipsiness.

He looked up at the sky and saw a few stars twinkling, scattered across the sky. In the back of his mind, he knew there was someone he wanted to call. Someone he wanted to blather to. He knew exactly who that was, but he didn't do it. He was out here to get away from it. Because Luke had told him to go away.