The Habit

o n e

 Haze fills the dimly lit room, clouding over the dully colored lampshade in the corner. I take another drag on my cigarette, holding the burning smoke into my chest before exhaling, adding more pollution to this small, cluttered space. My bed feels unbearably empty tonight. Through half-shut eyes I try to count the beer bottles lining my dresser, window sill, and TV stand. One, two, three....ten, eleven twelve...twenty-eight, twenty-nine....forty-one. I reach over to the line along the window sill to grab an empty one and lean against the wall, sticking the end of my cigarette in the neck to ash it. I lay my head back and take another drag, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling before letting my head drop down to my chest again. I swear there's another screwdriver somewhere around here. I run my hands along the pillows until I feel it - the cool glass bottle that holds the promise of vodka and forgetting.

I crack open the screwdriver and take a long drink, feeling the cool liquid travel down my throat. How long have I been in this room? Hours feel like days, days feel like years. The floor is littered with piles of clothes, some clean, most dirty. I can't tell the difference anymore. I don't even pretend to care. Every girl I bring over just ignores it, after all, my bed is almost always clean and that's all they care about.

Across the room, my phone begins to ring, vibrating against the edge of the speaker on my TV stand. The vibrating against the plastic of the speaker creates a horrible, shrill sound, amplified from hours I spent in silence. I turn to face it, feeling like I'm moving underwater. My legs catch up before my brain, and I am suddenly standing next to the phone, moving my hand towards it. I use what seems like all of my strength to hold it up to my ear before grumbling a greeting.

"Grey? Is that you? Are you okay?"

I stumble backwards before sitting down on the edge of the bed, almost missing the mattress and landing on the ground. I run my hand through my hair and sigh. "Hi, Mom."

The line is silent for a moment and even in my state of mind I know she is thinking of the right words to say. I can picture her now, sitting on her mint colored couch, legs tucked up under her, brows furrowing while she cradles her iPhone between her ear and her shoulder. Her dark hair is probably held up messily in a clip from the 90's, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. Finally, she speaks. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine as always," I answer, ignoring the pounding in my head.

"You don't sound fine," she points out. "Are things not going well with Valerie again?" I cringe at the name. I haven't heard from her in months, and I want to keep it that way. If I had it my way, I'd never see or talk to her again.

"I mean, it's whatever," I mumble. I hate how she always has to know what's going on in my life. I'm twenty-four years old, but she's more concerned about my life than her failing marriage. Darling ol' dad spends his nights drinking their money away. No wonder I'm over here doing the same thing.

"So you haven't talked to her," she says, sighing. I can almost hear her disappointment.

"No, mom! God! I told you before to fucking drop it. She fucking cheated on me, right? It's not my problem anymore. It probably never was."

The line goes silent for a moment before she speaks again. "Is it Kate? Isn't she coming soon?" I can hear her choking up. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm just so worried about you. You just don't seem like yourself lately."

"Yeah, I got it. Nothing about Kate. She's in a few weeks. I'm fine, I swear. But give me some space, okay? If there was something wrong I'd call you. Promise. I'll talk to you later." I end the call before she can say anymore. I don't want to talk about Valerie and the swelling of her stomach, I don't want to talk about Kate and how she spent close to a thousand dollars to come up to Michigan to see me. I don't want to talk about anything. I want to forget all of the bullshit with a bottle. Numb.