TRIGGER WARNING: Some scenes in this chapter may contain sensitive material. Alcohol abuse, violence, and self-harm are some topics mentioned. If you feel uneasy, please feel free to stop reading immediately.

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ONE YEAR AGO

This couldn't be real.

I looked at the photos again – photos of someone I used to know lying face first on the floor... photos taken from that night... photos that shouldn't exist. No phones were allowed then, so who the hell took these?

This was some fucking I-Know-What-You-Did-Last-Summer shit. I already put all this fucked up mess behind me. I was finally moving on, goddamn it.

But someone wouldn't let me.

Maybe because I didn't deserve to move on. Maybe I shouldn't be happy to live on with my life. Maybe I should be swimming in my own guilt, in penance for what I did. Maybe I didn't deserve to live.

Later that afternoon, I brought out all the liquor we had in the apartment and got shitfaced in the kitchen.

I wanna be drunk enough to forget. I wanna be drunk enough not to give a shit. I wanna be drunk enough to drink myself to death.

"What the fuck, Alfie?"

I lolled my head and saw Byron with a scowl as he looked around the mess. I raised a finger, before barfing some more in the sink. I didn't eat all day, so all I could puke was the alcohol I drank.

When I was done, I turned on the faucet and tried to gargle. Then, I washed my sweaty face. I did a sloppy job, but whatever.

"What's wrong with you?" Byron demanded.

I turned around and grinned at him. I could tell him all that was wrong with my life, but that would take too long and I just wanna pass out on the couch.

So I settled for, "Everything."

Every goddamn thing.

My best friends weren't here.

Oz was living his best life with his girlfriend, making a huge buzz in the NFL since he was expected to be drafted soon. Connie finally found a place where she belonged, with people who were now her family.

My friends weren't here.

Kurt had a new life, with new friends and a new team who treated him like a king. Frisco was happy being his good boy self, surrounded by people who didn't corrupt him at every turn.

My parents were never here.

Mom made me feel her presence by sending me shit I didn't need to make up for choosing her husband over me. And if Dad wasn't in rehab, he was either too busy dealing with his company or trying not to be an alcoholic son of a bitch.

I didn't blame my friends for having a life. I was happy that they didn't have any shit hanging over their heads like I did. It just fucking sucked that I was no longer part of their life.

I was part of no one's life.

All I had was my own.

And I didn't fucking deserve it.

Now, demons from my past were catching up to me. They didn't want me to move on. They didn't want me to have a life. They didn't want me to live in peace.

Maybe they didn't want me to live at all.

You and me both, motherfucker.

Byron walked closer to me and put a hand on my shoulder. "You know you can always talk to me, right?"

I sighed. "I know."

I knew I had friends here, but... it just wasn't the same. They were around, but they weren't around. I knew they cared. They were good people, after all.

Once last year, I got too rowdy and ended up in a brawl. Man, I went apeshit. But hey, I was still honing my anger management skills back then.

And like the fucking wuss he was, the dipshit who broke his front teeth from kissing my knuckles pressed charges. Before I could call my father, Byron bailed me out and dealt with it – without me even asking. He didn't even nag me or grill me. He never judged me.

From that moment on, I knew he was a friend for life.

But something was still missing.

I still felt alone.

In high school, it was hella easier to bury this feeling because something was always happening. There were endless distractions; football, parties, pranks, and girls. But right after graduation, everything went to shit.

College life fucked me up.

* * * * *

The following night, we were out of alcohol.

I went to a pub in Boston and got drinks there instead. I would've gone to Crown Oak but I didn't wanna see anyone I knew.

At some point, I ended up picking a fight with a moron who thought I was hitting on his girl. Maybe I was. Not that I remembered.

I just knew I wanted to have a reason to beat someone. My fists were fucking itching to hit something. And I was inwardly begging for this townie to give me a reason to do it.

"Get the fuck lost," he spat.

"Or what?" I taunted.

Fucking hit me already, you chicken shit.

"Or you'll be crying to your rich daddy tomorrow morning, 'cause your pretty face is badly scarred."

I sneered. "Aw, thanks for saying I have a pretty face. I'd say the same but... you look like an ass."

I watched his fugly face turn red in anger and his hands balled into fists. I laughed. About fucking time.

But before he could gather his goddamn balls and hit me, Byron appeared out of fucking nowhere and stepped in like Captain America. I didn't even get to say anything because Yash already dragged me out.

How the fuck did they even find me?

I planned on protesting, but I ended up puking on the sidewalk. Yash stayed silent, watching me barf my guts out. I heard Byron come out a few minutes later but I didn't bother looking up.

With an arm on the lightpost, I stayed hunched over the shit on the ground that came out from my mouth. My vision was blurred and my nose was clogged.

"Alfie, you gotta get a grip."

I thought I did.

I wanted a new scene? I moved. I wanted to have a purpose? I dreamed. I wanted to get rid of this shitty side of me? I had.

I thought I was finally doing okay.

Obviously, I thought wrong.

"If you can't talk to us, at least talk to someone—anyone."

"I'll give you the number of my therapist," Yash offered.

I breathed through my mouth, before saying, "I don't need a fucking shrink." I pulled away from the lightpost and started walking. "I don't need anyone."

* * * * *

I missed practice for the third day in a row.

I couldn't get out of bed because my head was fucking spinning. There was a knock on my bedroom door, and I couldn't even bother to glance at it.

I massaged my temple and called out, "What?"

"Hey, man. It's me, Holden."

I groaned, knowing what this was about. "Come in."

The door opened and a buff Latino guy entered. His forehead creased as he took in my current state. I'd bet my ass Coach sent Holden to check up on me.

If I had someone I could call my friend on the team, it was Holden. I mean, I was on good terms with the rest of the team. But I was just so busy with school work that I barely had time to hangout with them.

I only got close with Holden because he was my running back. He was pretty cool, too. Not stuck-up like fucking Mack.

"You hungover, man?" he asked, walking closer to my bed.

"Maybe even still drunk," I mumbled.

"You missed practice for this?"

I snorted. "No shit."

Without warning, he grabbed my feet and literally dragged me out of bed. I yelped when my ass hit the floor, and I struggled to kick him.

"What the fuck, Holden?! Let me go!"

Finally, he dropped my feet but we were already inside my bathroom. I stood up, ignoring the pounding in my head, and grabbed the collar of his shirt.

"What the fuck's your problem?!"

"Take a cold shower," he deadpanned.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do."

"Someone oughta do it."

Glaring, I shoved him away. "You're not my mother."

He dragged a hand down his face in frustration, before saying, "Look, I don't know what the hell's up with you. But we all got shit we gotta face."

"Yeah, like what?"

"Like my dear old father threatening to cut me off if I didn't live up to his expectations. He let me play college ball 'cause he thinks it's the only way I could bring him glory. Otherwise, I'm just a disappointment."

"At least, he gives a shit."

"Not the way I want him to." He shook his head and turned to me. "My point is, you gotta find a way to deal. Or you'll be consumed."

"Maybe that's what I want," I muttered.

He sighed, looking like he was giving up. "I'll cover for you and tell Coach you have the flu. But your ass better be there tomorrow. We need you, man."

With that, he finally left.

He wanted me to go to practice? Fine, I would go to fucking practice. But I didn't say anything about going there sober.

* * * * *

Coach Saxon only took one whiff on me, before he grasped my helmet and dragged me to the side. He removed my helmet and flung it to the benches.

Yikes, and they called me hotheaded.

"We have a game on Saturday, and you have the balls to show up fucking drunk in front of me?!" he demanded, with a voice that told me he was barely holding his rage. "I'll have Holden's ass for lying."

I kept quiet and let him rage on, mentally listing how many liquor bottles I had left at the apartment. I just bought them the other day, but I drank them like water. I hadn't died yet from alcohol poisoning, though. Go figure.

"Are you even listening, O'neal?" Coach hissed.

I hung my head, bored. "No, not really."

With his hands gripping his hips as if to stop them from taking a swing at me, he took a deep ragged breath as he scowled at me.

"Where's that kid who swore to me he'd stay straight and keep his eyes on the prize, huh?"

I shrugged.

"Where's that fucking kid I took a chance on when nobody else did? Where the hell is that driven kid underneath the shit he's been dealt with?" He stared me down. "Because right now, all I see is this mess. And I don't need that. The team deserves more than that."

I looked away, my jaw clenching.

"Until you find the kid I'm looking for, don't bother showing your ungrateful ass around me. You hear?"

I didn't say anything. I just gave him a curt nod, before turning around and leaving without another word. I needed another fucking drink.

It was already dark when I decided to go home. I didn't get into any fight, which sucked. I needed a fucking punching bag right now.

I wobbled as I crossed the empty road. The street lights looked hazy to me. Everything was a blur. Ha, maybe I drank too much.

Yeah, like anyone fucking cared.

I hated feeling this way. It was easier for me to be angry at the world than to feel sorry for myself for living in it. I'd rather be angry than sad. If I was full of rage, I could just find a way to calm down.

But how do I break out from being unhappy? How do I relieve myself from these dark thoughts swimming in my head? How do I escape?

Sad fucking sucked ass.

I heard a car honk loudly from my left. Suddenly, there were tires screeching. I turned my head to the direction of the sound but I squinted, fucking blinded by the light. Just as fast, everything went black.

Maybe I passed out.

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Welp, Alfie didn't handle that very well.

Next update: I update on weekdays!

Coming up next..... Chapter 11: Won't Go Down Easy