Drinking Numb (The Numbing Series #1)

Prologue

<"ı яєṃєṃɞєя ıṭ һȗяṭ. ʟȏȏҡıṅɢ ѧṭ һєя һȗяṭ.">
•ᖇᑌE•
•July 5, 2015•
The bottle's empty. I'm not surprised. They never last long.

I feel a single tear stray down my face, but I swipe it away before it can fall. I'm not crying. I don't cry. I can't cry. It's not allowed. Crying is pain, and pain is remembering.

Damn it, I need more to drink. This isn't enough. There's still too much. It's all still to much.

I stare off into nothing. It's all just darkness. There's an infinitive supply of it, never ending. I'm sitting in a random closet, something hard sticking into my butt. It's probably a hanger.

Pathetic, I know. Sitting in some stranger's closet alone wishing for another drink to feel numb enough. Hell, one wouldn't even be enough.

I've only had a beer, whatever was in that red cup I stole from the first person I saw making out on the lawn, and two Jell-O shots on the way up the stairs. Let's just say I was on a mission to escape. It's like a hobby of mine: The Art of Escaping. To bad I fucking ran out of the main ingredient I think as I try to pull down to the last drop out of the cheap beer bottle.
I stagger myself out of the closet using whatever I find in it for support.
I need another.

I open the door to the heart of the party. Everyone stuck-up and preppy always end up up stairs making out, doing crazy ass stunts on the rails, having sex, and passing bottles. I don't care about any of them even if they're all staring at me. I don't care.

I definitely need another.
•••

Somehow I end up back in the same closet with the same hanger sticking up my butt. I drag the last swallow out of my last beer bottle. The last one tonight anyways.

I've done it. I'm completely numb. A stupid cheap-ass bottle of beer has made me forget everything, not feel anything. It's like nothing ever happened.

To bad it's not as easy as a cheap beer bottle to fix everything in reality.
I feel a rush of anger roll over me, and the next thing I know I'm holding a broken shard of it in my hand. I can see it in the slot of light shinning through the now open door. I'm transfixed as I look down at my hand holding the shard of glass.

What if it could fix everything?

I look up at the attractive figure standing above me and ask one simple question as I hold the shard to my wrist:

"You think I'm numb enough not to feel it?"

So much for good first impressions because this guy now thinks I'm a drunk, suicidal loner.

I look back down at the shard digging into my wrist like a piece of art that could permanently take the pain away. I don't get to see the scarlet paint make its way down, creating erratic lines over my skin before everything returns to darkness.

Maybe he'd be right.