Chapter I

"Life is in ourselves and not in the external." – Fyodor Dostoevsky

Dixie

I tapped my fingers against the empty bottle again today, sweat pooling at the base of my back. The things I see and know are in stark contrast to what I want to know. I've also realized that my longest friends are a book I got from my old nanny— Miss you every day Lauren and a bottle that is killing me more and more everyday. Sounds great.

The bottle I hold contains nothing. It is dry, consumed. It shouldn't be, not when I know full well the seal was broken on the liter of expensive bourbon only minutes before. I swear it hasn't even been two hours since I opened this but there's nothing else and I just felt like writing about it. I've stopped journaling so often but whenever everything else gets too overwhelming, I write.

The room is not hot or stuffy, not even a little. The windows are open, and a crisp breeze floats through. Yet, I feel clammy in a way that tells me truths I'm not ready to hear.

I know I drank the alcohol, and my body is asking for more. As it always does. It's a cycle and it's one I'm funding. I contemplate, brushing shaking fingers through the sweat dripping off my body, wondering if it may taste like bourbon too. I consider licking it just to find out. And that's when I realize it's bad but there's no help to me. I'm just doing this to die. That's all I have left. The want and will to die.

Through the parted curtains, the sky is a milky dawn. I check my phone and see a message from my mom that she and my siblings are gone. They're always gone, so it doesn't even matter.

I nearly made it to the weekend, but the insomnia's relentless as the day finally dawns on the end of the week. I made it to Friday, against my better judgement, and tonight I can really let loose....again. It's cloudy as the sun is rising. I should feel hope; instead, I feel the clawing need for more.

More drink.

More escape.

More time before I need to pretend I didn't spend the night burning hours with bourbon instead of getting sleep. It's better for me.

I drag my hands through my hair and my body to the window to watch the inevitable rise of the sun. Each movement feels too heavy. I force myself to stare at it, self-loathing and longing, waging the same battle for space as the twilight and the sun fight it out in the sky. As the glow of daylight pushes away the darkness, I wonder which of my own inevitable truths will win my battle.

I have to face this day. And to do so, I'm going to need a drink. I fucking hate living. I tucked the empty bourbon bottle beneath your arm and carry it with me. I needed to put this one somewhere inconspicuous, so no one's tipped off to the fact I stayed up all night. That's what must be hidden, not the empty bottle. It's crazy because they wouldn't even know or care.

I'm sweating as fuck, but I'm chilled, and I pull my lip between my teeth, hoping the sharpness of the sensation will clear the heavy fog from my mind. I move toward the kitchen, and the fridge is open before I've even registered the speed at which my lethargic body has carried me here. I wonder if I left it open last night. I need the fog to recede after all, and like the sun that's now breaking through the clouds and lighting the world in morning hope, I know there is an answer.

In the fridge, I reach for the beer, jostling the empty bourbon bottle beneath my arm as I turn with it in my hand. Merely gripping the liquid sunshine has me standing a touch taller, and I smile. Ah, yes. A shower beer. It's a luxury, I reason. Not a problem.

I open the beer on the way to the shower, letting the fizz coat my tongue and clear my mind. Even that first sip loosens the vice on my mood from the lack of sleep and makes me feel a little more bubbly.

The shower is just what I needed, and I finish the beer as I wash off the remnants of my sleepless night alone. I'm definitely not trying to wash the smell of bourbon from my skin.

After the shower, I dress quickly, doing up the buttons to my favorite shirt and checking my reflection in the mirror as I sort my hair. I note the swelling under my eyes, the stress lines around my lips. But my eyes twinkle, and I'm just tired. But I'll be sleeping tonight. Sleeping without wake.

I made my way out the door, and since I'm on time, I treated myself to another beer. One for the road, I reason, as I drop the can from the shower beer and the bourbon into the bin. Doing myself a favor. One less thing I'll need to clean up later. No one will even notice or suspect it's me. Perfect.

It feels great outside, so with the windows down and radio up, I make my way into the school yard, heading to the back. By the time I arrive, my second beer is gone, and so is the lingering drag from my sleepless night. I feel fresh and ready to take on the world—clear-headed.

The morning grind wears on, and I can feel the press of my exhaustion around 10 during Ms. Mason's mathematics class. I have a muffin and some coffee, but idly wish there was some Bailey's to pour into it. It'd give it that kick you need to give maximum effort to do this graded classwork. Alas, there's no Bailey's, so I grind with the test toward lunch and, with any luck, a trip to the bar around the corner. I'm so glad we're allowed to leave campus for lunch.

Well, and they do have half-priced sandwiches too. That's why I'm going after all. That's why I always choose that little bar with the bartender who knows my name and goes a little heavy on the pours. Who knows already that I'd like another without asking, and it's a dance of efficiency so smooth, no one really notices how many I've had. The bartender is that good, and that service is worth paying for.

Yes, good service and half-price sandwiches. The beer and discretion are merely a byproduct. I dragged my school hoodie on, hiding the school shirt ahd snuck off to the bar. My favorite place.

I down three dark drafts with lunch that way.

It's enough to grind me through the afternoon classes even though I'm gritting my teeth by 4 p.m. English class is taking forever to end. I keep fidgeting and everyone keeps starting.

"You okay?" Jesse asks. He's the other quiet kid that sits next to me in class.

I nodded and offered a faint smile at him.

I check my watch, then my texts.

Noah B: I miss you.

My cheeks light up at this message but my emotions quickly change as I know I can't respond. I do miss him, but today's my last day. The final day of everything.

"Class dismissed," the teacher shouted and everyone hurriedly left the class.

I grabbed my things, hammered at the keys and became a touch careless with the tone of my replies to the people interrogating me.

I'm heading down to the bus stop, already planning the evening— my reward for making it through the day. My last day. I might as well live it the fuck up.

On the ride home, the driver white-knuckling the wheel and squinted at the lines to maintain the lane. She's like me. I could tell. But she's shit at hiding it. By the time she turns on my street, my heart is pounding, hands shaking. On jelly legs, I walk toward my house door. As I unlock it, you glance at the empty garage warily, almost shocked by the absence of everyone.

But then I feel low. A pang of guilt. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe I do have a problem.

But that will all be solved today. Maybe I'm just too tired. I worked too hard; I didn't sleep enough. And so what did I do this last week too? I sigh, defensive and defeated and dragging to bed. One foot at a time as the weight of my worry settles into my limbs.

I swallow my pills. Take my final drink of bourbon, as everything slowly fades away. The years of pain will all end tonight.