Colby sat alone, criss cross on the kitchen counter. He had all the lights off, basking in darkness. His chin was resting comfortably in the palm of his hand while the other hand swirled the glass bottle around on the table. His eyes followed the movement of the liquid inside, creating a tiny whirlpool inside the container.
A singe tear fell from his face and onto the smooth surface of the counter. He lifted his head, trying to stop the rest of the tears. But they fell like a waterfall down his cheeks and soon a small puddle formed in front of him.
He was too lazy to find a cup, though there was probably one in the sink next to him. He popped the cap off the bottle and placed it to his lips. He hesitated. The odor from the bottle was strong and it burned his nose a little. He continued to let the tears fall. He was sad, yes. He was disappointed, yes. He was angry, yes. And he knew drinking wasn't the answer. But what else is there to do when your best friend leaves? What else is there to do when you know you did wrong? What do you do then?
And when he saw the bottle in the cabinet, he couldn't resist. His fingers curled around the glass, it was like it was begging him to drink it. He took it and ended up on the counter. He waited. Maybe Sam would come back. Maybe Sam would run back into the house apologizing. Maybe Sam would realize how much he loves Colby.
But the door never opened. And Sam never came back. So now, here Colby sat, bringing the bottle to his lips. He wanted to forget about the stupid fight, argument, whatever you would call it. He wanted to forget about the hateful words he threw at Sam. He wanted to forget the way Sam was looking at him, daggers in his eyes. He just wanted to forget the night even happened.
He knew the alcohol would make him forget. For a while at least. He knew once enough of it was in his system, he wouldn't feel sad or angry anymore. He would feel weightless, like he could do anything.
A thought crossed his mind then. Colby's eyes wandered the dark room for his phone. Maybe Sam had called him or texted him and he missed it. But his phone wasn't in the room, he remembered throwing it across the bedroom after Sam left. He didn't want to get up and check.
Colby lifted the bottle once more to his lips. He parted his lips, finally allowing the liquid to enter his body. It burned his throat with each swallow. But at least this pain was better than the other pain. This pain he could feel and control, it was physical. The other pain was emotional and draining.
After halfway through the bottle, he set it down. His vision was already going blurry, his eyes drooping. His hands were shaking slightly, feeling the buzz. His mind was swirling all kinds of thoughts to him: sad ones, happy ones, dark ones. Colby was drunk.
And all his mind kept replaying was the fight between him and Sam. He was drinking to forget about it. But the alcohol wasn't helping any. It replayed Colby yelling at Sam, shoving him into the door, Sam crying, Sam shouting, Colby gripping Sams arm. Sam leaving. It hurt his heart.
Colby screamed. He pulled at his dark brown hair, screaming and crying. He pounded his fists onto the counter, bruising his knuckles. He was angry, so angry. His face was hot with rage. He reached down and grabbed a plate from the sink. He threw it across the room, it hit the floor, shattering. And Colby watched the pieces fly. He picked up another one and threw it.
He grabbed the bottle in front of him. He missed it and tried again. He missed again before shoving his arm around in front of him. He swirled it around until his arm made contact with the bottle. It wobbled on the table and Colby wasn't fast enough to catch it. More glass filled the floor along with the alcohol inside it. Colby screamed again, throat hurting even more than it already was.
He gave up. He brought his head into his hands and sobbed. He cried loudly and it echoed though the empty mansion. Tears dripped between his fingers. His body shook with ugly sobs. He couldn't feel anything else beside sadness.
