Brian Feely is angry. Angry at the world. At his parents. At every person who ever turned their back and chose the easier option-walking in the opposite direction, pretending not to hear the crack in his voice, the quiet desperation laced through every word he never quite managed to say properly. Because it was easier, wasn't it? Easier to ignore him than to understand him. The anger inside him festers, sharp and restless, with nowhere good to go. No healthy outlet. No safe place to land. So it spills-messy and uncontrolled-into the only thing that ever seems to quiet it, even if only for a moment. Alcohol. It burns on the way down, but he welcomes it. Welcomes the blur, the numbness, the way it dulls everything-his thoughts, his memories, the constant weight pressing against his chest. It doesn't fix anything. It never does. But it makes him feel less... aware. Less like himself. And maybe that's the point. Because the boy he used to be-the one who felt things too deeply, who hoped too much-that version of Brian Feely doesn't survive in a world like this. So he trades feeling for forgetting. Trades pain for emptiness. A parallel, whether he realises it or not. Because addiction doesn't always look the same. It doesn't always wear the same face. Sometimes it's loud and obvious. Other times, it's quieter. Subtler. Harder to catch before it's already taken hold. The older Feely brother, Patrick Feely, had his demons laid out in the open-visible, undeniable. But in Brian, it was reborn. Not identical. Not quite the same. Just different enough to go unnoticed. Just familiar enough to be dangerous.