Intoxicate

|2| Connection.

|Girls - The 1975|

It's around closing time when the exhaustion from the day hits me. My feet and back ache and every part of my body is stiff. I guess the that's the problem with selling flowers, it's a deadly business.

Untying my apron, I turn around and place it on its usual hook, feeling a sense of fulfilment as the day comes to a close.

It's only then that I realise that Megan, my co worker, is nowhere to be seen. I hurry out into the shop front and see her on the other side of the front window, waving cheekily before getting in her lash red car and speeding off.

I sigh heavily, the days weariness noticeably etched onto my face. I pause for a moment and give myself time to drop the cheery facade that people see as the real me, instead of a convincing illusion put in place to protect the girl hiding behind her mask. The girl that is, inevitably, me.

I really need a drink, if I didn't have a date with carter tonight, I would have already hit the bar. Since, last year, I have never been happier to legally drink, taking the occasional chance to drown my demons for one blissful night. Occasionally isn't really the right word, however.

Not often though, as unfortunately, it was something that was frowned upon by the high and all-mighty carter, who believed that alcohol was the root of all evil. He's catholic.

Alcohol cures the root of all evil, touching it with its poisonous toxin and bubbling away till there is nothing left, nothing but a forgotten memory. For a night at least.

It's at least an half an hour before I return home. The trip was slow, not because of traffic, as peak hour simply does not exist here, but because of the fact that I drove through every back street that I knew, purposely delaying the time it takes to get home.

At least with my mother gone, I could pretend that I was a normal 22 year old who lived away from her parents, and didn't have a mother who bitched on her back every time she looked for an escape from her mundane and unvaried lifestyle. When she was there.

I trudge upstairs and abandon my current clothing choice, quickly sifting through my eclectic wardrobe and choosing a black fitted velvet dress, with 3/4 sleeves and a skirt that flows down to just a nice my knees. I add a pair of simple black heels.

I walk back downstairs glumly, feeling sorry for myself and wondering what I did to deserve such an abhorrent life. Which, in itself is absurd, as I know what I did wrong, it's just that things like that are the reason I have little coloured tablets lined up at the breakfast table.

Those tiny pills that are waiting for me everyday. Waiting for me to absorb them into my body, so they can spread their slimy goodness around inside of me and make me normal again, which they incontestably don't do. Simply because fixing me is like fixing an earthquake with a bandaid. I'm too far gone to be fixed, the earthquake is just too wide and too deep, the bandaid is just too small to do the job properly.

It's not until an hour later, at dinner with carter, that I find myself cursing for not having cancelled my plans to drop myself at the bar around the corner. Then to inevitably stagger home in the early morning, blissfully unaware of what going on outside of my happy bubble that only comes with a certain level of sloppy drunk.

Carter must have seen the pained look on my face because he stopped - God forbid- halfway through his rant to ask

"Are you alright?"

Of course, i'm not entirely sane 100% of the time, so instead of replying with a surprised "yeah, of course, please continue" like any sane person would, I blurt out in a rush

"Ineedadrink"

Carter purses his lips in annoyance but waves a hand to indicate to the closest waiter and quickly orders a glass of a wine that I have never heard of before, before continuing on with his rant about how it's an absolute disgrace that "shopping trolleys are stolen and then irresponsibly abandoned in people's front yards".

Don't get me wrong, I really, really like Carter. However, sometimes he just needs to..... sew his lips together with dental floss.

His rant is again interrupted as the waitress arrives with my wine. Carter gives it a strong, pointed look of distaste as she attempts to place it on the table, but the numerous plates and side dishes are making that simple task complicated.

As I slide one of the plates away to create more space for my much needed alcoholic beverage, the waitress stupidly places it half on my hand, and half on the table and lets go. It's really no surprise when it tips, and with no help from me - purposely- it tips onto her white outfit, blossoming across the pristine fabric as you would imagine blood from a bullet wound to.

I mutter a few apologies but the girl doesn't seem to want to hear it as she glares at me and storms off into the direction of the staff toilets, leaving the glass to fall to the tiled floor of the restaurant and smash. Epically.

It actually caused a pretty big scene, most of the heads in the restaurant turned to our table, their eyes taking in the sight - a young, embarrassed couple sitting at a table, swamped with blood red wine that spills slowly into the floor, drop by drop. It could pass for a horror scene any day.

The murmuring and under the breath laughs die down after a moment or two, and the diners turn back to their unfinished meals.

A waiter rushes towards us, apologising profusely, but I do not see him as my head is buried in my hands, as if to hide me and reflect the other diners thoughts away.

I slowly come to my senses though, and lift my head. Only to be greeted by a pair of eyes that I unfortunately knew all to well. Realisation delivers itself across the waiters blank face and I find myself jumping up from my seat.

"Baylee!" can be heard from two separate voices as I run out of the restaurant and pound down the road to the dark bat on the corner.

The first voice belonged to my boyfriend.

The second, belonged to him. The boy who stole my heart and took it in possession of his. The boy I fell in love with. The boy who started it all, but also finished it all. In turn tearing my heart in two with his calloused hands and not even bothering to stitch it back together, not even four months ago. The boy I had called mine. Finn.