Unmarked

45. Be My First

Gasping for air, I jolt awake. I don't need to open the curtains to know what time it is. Every wake up is the same.

My throat is scratchy and raw. I need a drink. Reaching out, I grab a bottle, take a gulp and acid alcohol scalds my throat. I'm turning into my mum.

A ball of grief works it's way up my throat which I swallow back down, the shards of loss shredding my insides. I take another sip and it warms my gurgling belly. I don't want to take this route.

Stumbling towards the bathroom, my head sways and throbs. I empty the bottle of corrupting liquid down the sink and turn the tap on, bending down, I gulp the cool refreshing water. My mouth tastes as though I've been eating the inside of someone's butthole or how I guess it would taste anyway; foul, thick and sticky.

Brushing my teeth and tongue, I scrub hard to rid myself of the remnants of last night's alcohol and the embarrassment of my inability to handle it.

Grey held me while I cried, hard ugly sobs with a stream of salty tears which didn't want to end. It was too much. It was so embarrassing. It was also a first. I've never had anyone comfort me when I've been in that state.

A flicker in the mirror catches my attention. Swivelling round, Grey stands in the doorway with bed tousled hair. He's too good-looking. I'm surprised The State haven't arrested him simply for making people think 'impure thoughts'.

"I didn't mean to wake you," I mumble with a mouthful of toothpaste.

"You didn't. I can never sleep for long. Did you have a nightmare?" He leans against the door frame.

I nod in response, rinsing my mouth out with water and spitting the remaining contents into the sink.

"What about?" He walks over, grabs a toothbrush and squeezes on toothpaste.

"Death," I say quietly.

I watch him scrub his teeth, wash his mouth out with water. It feels overly intimate. He turns to face me and leans on the sink. The cramped bathroom gives us little room to manoeuvre and the air is heavy. Does he think 'impure thoughts' about me? I want him too.

"Mine never end in death. That's the nightmare, continuous pain without ever having the relief of death." He frowns. "Usually, I wake up shouting or thrashing about but I haven't done it for the last few nights."

"My mum was the same. She would only sleep for short periods of time. I think it helped reduce the nightmares. She once strangled me when I tried to wake her. I think she thought she was back at the labour camp." I shrug. "So don't worry if you do. I'm not really bothered by some shouting or an accidental thump."

Grey's frown deepens and he runs his hand through his hair. I've noticed he does it a lot when he finds something stressful. He seems to find a lot of what I say stressful.

"How are you feeling?" He asks.

"Embarrassed. You shouldn't have had to witness my epic sob fest. I blame the alcohol. I'm never drinking again."

"There's no need to be embarrassed."

"Maybe. Anyway, thank you, you're the first person I got drunk with, the first to read me a book and the first person other than my mum to see me cry."

"I feel honoured. I'm choosing to not be insulted by the fact you started crying as soon as I started reading." Grey smiles. "Maybe over the next couple of days we could organise some other firsts before..." He tapers off a troubled look darkening his face.

"Before I attempt entering State Headquarters which will almost certainly result in my death." I try to sound flippant but the words get stuck in my throat, making them sound forced and disjointed. Grey's frown deepens. I add, "Sounds like fun. I have to meet a friend this morning who's going to help me out but I'll be done by lunch."