5 Years On | Bughead

Three

She paused for a second staring at that closed door. She was supposed to be closing a door here . . .

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. She just couldn't. Not yet.

She opened the door.

Jughead was rummaging around underneath the trailer, having pushed aside part of the wooden cross-hatched fence at the base of it. He came out muddied, but with a full bottle of whiskey in one hand and something else tucked into his pocket. He sat down in the chair beside the dilapidated gnome, twisted the cap off the bottle, and took a huge swig of the booze. Pulling the bottle back down he looked at Betty with a dare in his eyes.

She just stared back at him, silent. Jughead noticed she didn't look angry or disappointed. Just calm. Why? He must not be trying hard enough. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he had just retrieved from his stash beneath the trailer. He lit one and took a deep drag, followed by another swig. Well, to be honest, it wasn't a swig – it was about five gulps.

"So, you smoke now?" Betty asked him.

"Only when I drink," he took another drag and blew the smoke towards her.

"Really?" Betty asked.

"Fine, you got me." His voice was just beginning to slur, but he pushed through it, pointed at her, and said angrily. "If you must know, I only smoke when I drink AND I'm pissed at you!"

He took a violent swig of the bottle – it was already half gone. He lit up another cigarette.

"You wanna know why?" he jeered.

"No," she answered firmly. "Not when you're in this state."

"What state?"

Silence.

"Say it, Betty."

"You're drunk Jughead – and I don't want to have to take you to the hospital just because you finished off that whole bottle by yourself within mere minutes."

"Pfah!" He waved an uncoordinated hand dismissively. "I'm fine."

"Sure."

She helped him to lie back down on the bathroom floor again – the only place he wanted to be – after his latest session of vomiting, his head propped up high enough in her lap to be safe, and then wiped his lips clean as he passed out once again. Jughead was not going to become another Bruce - not on her watch.

When Jughead had passed out on the grass, falling onto the empty whiskey bottle, she panicked. Not because he might have crushed the bottle into shards of glass beneath him – he could probably live through that – no, it was because she knew he had drunk so much alcohol that he was going to have to throw up and she didn't want him to die.

She had begun tugging at him frantically, hurriedly getting him into a seated position. And then she just held him there in the grass and cried. She had been so scared.

Senior year in Riverdale had been difficult for Betty and she started to process her emotions once she left. And she learned soon enough the numbing power of alcohol. The first time she got drunk, she nursed her drinks from the quiet corner of an empty sofa at a college party, where no one bothered her. Soon the nagging thoughts of everything that had gone wrong in Riverdale were replaced by . . . something. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it felt GREAT to not be burdened by them anymore.

So, this was the appeal of alcohol . . .

It wasn't the last time she got drunk either. Whenever the dark thoughts were especially overwhelming, she would find a party. Bruce, Mr. Party Animal, was usually there because they travelled in the same circles. Betty would often find herself wondering what demons he was trying to keep at bay – why he hated himself so much. But she never found out.

One night near 4am, a scream rang out at a party and a voice called for help. Betty ran back to a little bathroom where a she saw a girl kneeling over Bruce, shaking him, and yelling "Breathe! Breathe!"

Betty looked down in horror at the scene. Vomit encrusted his mouth. His lips and parts of his face were turning blue – very blue. She didn't know a human being could look like that.

"Oh my God," Betty gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. "I think he's dead."

And he was. Bruce had passed out and then suffocated on his own vomit. No one had been in the bathroom to take care of him - they were all too wasted.

Betty stopped drinking that day.

And now Jughead lay on the bathroom floor, passed out in her lap. It was horrifying to revisit this. Especially with him. She couldn't bear the thought of her first love dying.

"Oh, Juggie," she said and reached down and stroked his cheek. "Why are you hurting so much?"

Vomiting was done now and she'd been plying Jughead with drink while he lay in bed. Of the H2O variety. He always resisted at first, but she was firm.

"If you don't drink this, your hangover's going to be ten times worse."

"What if I don't get a hangover?" he joked.

"Oh, you're getting one of those, believe me."

He took a big gulp out of the glass of water she was holding to his lips and then started up again. "I loved you so much, Betty. Why did you -?"

"Uh-huh. I told you. Not while you're drunk. Don't ask me again until you're sober."

Her phone rang. Gregg.

"Hi, Gregg."

Jughead looked down, still frowning.

"I was going to call you. I'm going to be out here in Riverdale a little while longer."

Gregg was loud enough on the other line that Jughead could probably tell how upset he was. She stood up and walked as far away from him as she could while still keeping him in sight. She was mortified that he might hear her getting in trouble with her fiancé.

"Look," Betty said firmly into phone, trying not to yell back. "It's complicated and I'm not leaving yet."

Jughead muttered dejectedly from the bed, "Just go back to him."

Betty looked over at him, creased her brows and tilted her head. "Jug."

"You don't want to deal with this mess," he answered her, weakly touching his chest to indicate himself, the most pitiful look in his eyes. "Really, you don't."

"Gregg, I gotta go." Betty hung up the phone as Gregg was still yelling. She put it on silent and laid it facedown.

"Jug, I DO want to deal with 'this mess' – with you. But we have to talk about it when you're sober, okay?"

"Okay," he looked up and gave her a weird, sad little smile. "Betty, when will I be sober again?"