Crash & Burn || Roadtrip Tv

s e v e n - b r o o k l y n

Brooklyn had got to Essex by taxi. He had ordered one the night before they left, ordering for it to arrive at the the same time that everyone had organised to leave.

He sat in the front of the car in complete silence, tears glistening in his eyes the whole way back. The poor, unsuspecting driver had tried to make small talk and tried to ask what was wrong, but the boy just ignored him, not even bothering to look at him or acknowledge him.

After an hour and a half, the taxi pulled up in front of his old childhood home. As Brooklyn looked at it for the first time in three years, he felt numb. That house held many memories, bad memories, memories that he didn't want to be forced to remember. Yet he had to. Now that Rye had passed and Roadtrip had come to an end, he had no choice but to go back to the place he had never called home.

"Th-thank you." Brooklyn stuttered, speaking for the first time in over an hour. The driver just nodded, taking the money that Brooklyn held out to him. After collecting his suitcase and bags from the boot of the car, he made his way up the front steps, stopping outside the front door.

He bent down, lifting up the third flower pot from its place next to the welcome mat. He sighed in relief as he found the slightly rusty house key where he had left it all those years ago. Shakily, he picked up the key, pushing it into the lock. He twisted it to the right, the door clicking open.

Brooklyn took a deep breath before he pushed open the door, stepping in. The foul smell of stale alcohol hit him square in the face. Instead, this time, it no longer disgusted him. It intrigued him. He no longer felt scared, as the cause of his fear was now no longer around; no longer alive.

He dumped his bags by the front door, closing it and locking it. He sluggishly walked further into the house, making his way into the kitchen to get a drink of water. He opened the glass cupboard, taking out a cup and making his way over to the sink. As he was filling the glass with clear and cool water, his hazel-hued green eyes fell onto something that once terrified the life out of him. Many bottles of alcohol.

He tore his gaze away from them, trying his best to fight the urging temptation that surged through his body. It was a craving. He never did drink alcohol whilst he lived with the boys, because of his past experiences with it. But today. Today it was different. Today it intrigued him. It made him want to know why his father had relied on it after his mum left them.

Brooklyn shook his head, closing his eyes tightly. He didn't want it. He didn't want to try it. He didn't want to know what it tasted like. No. No he didn't.

But no matter how hard he tried to shake away any thought he had, he just couldn't. He sighed, slamming he glass down on to the counter, probably harder than he should have. Not even having time to think about what he was doing, or stop himself, he walked straight towards the abnormally large supply. Pulling out a huge and full bottle of some alcoholic substance, he cracked open the top, connecting his lips to the bottle, downing some of the liquid. Surprisingly enough, he didn't hate it. In fact, he liked it. He loved it.

And that was where the addiction started.

Two hours later, Brooklyn was passed out fast asleep on the old couch in his house. Three empty bottles of alcohol lay on their sides around him. His mouth was hanging open, soft and light snores leaving it. If he could see himself like that, then he wouldn't have had anything to drink. He would have realised just how much he looked like his father. Led there, passed out, on the couch, completely and utterly smashed out of his face.

He would have scared himself.

He had turned into his own worse nightmare.