𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧' 𝐆𝐮𝐲 ➺ 𝐵𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝑀𝒶𝓎 & 𝒬𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃

47. Don't Drink, Kids

December 1972

My stomach knotted as anxiety escalated, bordering on nausea. And then, as if fate had a twisted sense of humour, the man in the trench coat appeared again. That damn man, as concealed as possible. The situation was becoming too much to handle—too many thoughts swirling, too many emotions to process.

I found myself running, sprinting towards the only place where I felt safe, regardless of the circumstances. Perhaps I should have moved to Sinclair Road at that point.

As I approached Brian's place, my breathing had calmed slightly. I knew he wasn't home, but someone had to be there. Emma and Roger, at the very least. I hoped and prayed they hadn't gone out for the night.

Taking a moment to catch my breath, I reached out to knock on the familiar front door. Closing my eyes, I silently pleaded for a swift response. Fortunately, luck was on my side this time.

After a series of rattles and clunks from the locks, Roger opened the door just enough to peer outside. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes bloodshot with heavy bags underneath, and he was dressed in nothing but some pyjama bottoms.

He squinted at me, gradually opening the door wider. "Maria? What are you doing here? Brian's still at—"

"I know," I interrupted, my eyebrows furrowing. "I just... I need somewhere else to stay tonight." I pleaded with my eyes, despising him yet desperate for his help.

"Why? Has something happened?"

"Can I come in? It's freezing," I practically whimpered, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at my eyelids. He responded by opening the door fully, stepping aside to let me in, and then locking it behind me.

"I've just woken up, so... I don't think I'm the best person to talk to right now, love," Roger scratched his head, his dishevelled appearance confirming his claim. "But, uh... If you really need to talk about it..."

I sighed to myself, feeling a tinge of disappointment at his lack of interest in his best friend's girlfriend and her mental well-being. "No, don't worry about it," I replied, turning towards the living toom, unable to suppress an unintentional roll of my eyes.

I could hear Roger's footsteps receding as he headed towards the staircase. "Well, you know where everything is. Just try not to make any noise. Emma and I are exhausted." With that, he vanished upstairs.

I stood alone in the living room, folding my arms, contemplating whether I should take off my denim jacket. But the memory of how cold Brian's house became during the night made me hesitate.

Taking a deep breath, I grimaced at the dryness that had settled in my mouth over the past few hours. "Water, Maria," I reminded myself.

It was evident that Brian and Freddie hadn't been back to the house in a while, as the kitchen grew increasingly dishevelled. I don't mean to say that Roger couldn't take care of himself—I'm saying he didn't do it properly. Well, he could be somewhat useful at times. Okay, maybe I'm being petty. You don't have to tell me.

For some reason, the simple task of finding a glass proved difficult. It became clear that Roger and Emma had probably used glasses in Roger's room and never bothered to bring them down. I would have to settle for a mug to quench my thirst.

Well, that was the plan until I noticed the half-full bottle of cheap vodka sitting on the countertop.

I knew I had a slight inclination towards an addiction or alcoholism, but I wasn't like that. I simply enjoyed a drink now and then, especially when it helped alleviate the anxiety and mild depression that plagued me at times. But it seemed that today, I had taken it a step further.