A World Apart

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Logan

To drink, or not to drink. That is the burning question setting my mind alight. Not quite as philosophically redeeming as Hamlet's plight, but he can go to hell right now. I've already dealt with all my existential dread and ethical quarreling, from hence forth I deserve the reprieve of smaller problems. And my current problem is certainly a small one, the size of a shot glass in fact, it's crystal body turned brown by the liquor inside it.

At some point it becomes trapped between my index finger and thumb. You're mine now, I think devilishly, if I want you. The corner of my mouth cracks up into a smile at the thought. Of course I want it! That doesn't mean I should have it, though.

I think the shot Ava gifted me at the bar is finally starting to glaze my thoughts. A pale warmth is suffusing my limbs, threatening to leave if I don't provide sustenance. What harm could one more really do? Just enough to revive that feeling. That warmth.

"You know you can't get drunk from looking at it, right?"

Startled, I look up to find Ava smirking at me. To save face, or maybe because I was planning to do it anyway, I tip the shot back in one quick swing. How long has she been watching me for? After Stella left, Ava escorted me to a quieter bar in yet another chamber of the club. Last we spoke, she left me with a bottle of whiskey while she dealt with some business. I'm not sure how many minutes – or shots – ago that was, but I know it hasn't been very many.

"Enjoying the view?" As soon as I hear my voice I realize I've had one too many. Or I've been downing them too quickly. It takes more concentration than it should to stop my words from dissolving into a slur.

Ava looks unfazed by the state of me, hopefully because she can't notice any difference.

"I've seen better," she says with a shrug, then reaches for the bottle of whiskey to pour herself a shot.

Imagining the two of us from the viewpoint of an outside observer helps me see how ridiculous we must look. Injecting ourselves with a poison that has no doubt leeched away a majority of competence already. Especially when we know a dangerous threat is coming. Recognizing this has me wanting to smash the bottle into a thousand tiny pieces, as many as there are infected coming our way. There's no excuse for it. We should be running around, preparing, doing something! Not just sitting here anticipating the moment death will knock at the door. Or could that anxiety be used as an excuse to drink more?

Apparently so. When Ava pushes the bottle back towards me I don't sweep it away like I was planning to seconds ago. Instead my eyes only rest on the liquor, undulating in its glass cage from being moved across the bar, until it's surface settles out flat like a horizon. Ava has stayed silent during this process, her gaze fixed heavily on me during this time.

"You and that bottle seem to have a pretty intense thing going on," she says after a moment, eyebrow raised. "Met each other before, huh?"

I'm not sure whether she's trying to make polite conversation or if her query is a disguised attempt at asking if I have a drinking problem. Either way I decide to play along in kind.

"Old friends, actually," I say.

Her smile, almost sad, tells me her intentions fall into the latter. If that weren't enough to convince me, her hand, slowly slinking back towards the bottle confirms it.

"You must be besties then."

This make me snort, aggressively enough to scorch the back of my throat and leave me in a spluttering fit of coughs. Something about personifying alcohol like this, as if it really were just a lifelong friend I've had falling outs with, is hilarious to me. Any veil of sobriety I managed to stitch together has surely been shredded to bits now.