It was a late autumn night, nearing the hour of midnight. The crescent moon hung in the sky like a silver petal falling from the sky. The stars twinkled behind misty gray clouds hanging in the atmosphere like silk curtains. The wind was blowing with a sharpness that usually only came during a winter storm. A blonde teenager wearing a faded red jacket suited for late September weather and not cold November nights was sitting in an alleyway on the steps that led up to a bright red door the same shade as neon blood. The teenager's legs were laid out before him, pressing into the concrete with enough force that he was sure he was going to bruise. He shivered as another breeze grabbed hold of his clothes and hair, twisting them around before dropping them back against his pale skin. Even though he hated the cold, he didn't move a single muscle to find warmth. He just leaned against the metal railing of the stairs, staring up at the sky with a bottle of strong liquor pushed against his trembling fingers.

The alcohol rolled around in his stomach, pushing up against the edges of his body like water filling a pitcher. It was as hot as lava when his skin was as cold as ice, and the two extremes made him feel like he was going to puke. Or maybe he wanted to puke because he had drunk alcohol meant for someone with a higher tolerance than he had and he didn't have anything else in his stomach. He probably should have grabbed food instead of the glass bottle, but he had made his choice and he was dealing with it. He was letting the nausea sap at his strength and swirl his thoughts. He could groan in pain, but what would that do? He was alone. He already knew he was in pain, so he didn't need to inform anyone else of it. There was no one to complain to or beg to hold him. All he had was himself and the bottle that was doing more harm to him than help. He was starting to realize why people called it a vice, and starting to understand less why people like his father put up with it.

He had stolen the bottle from his father. He had marched right into his father's office to tell the man about something, but when he found an empty chair behind a cluttered desk, his vision trailed around for something to take. He was tempted to steal some money from the safe sitting behind his father's desk, but the brown painted steel trap made his eyes water and his anger flared. He settled for trifling through his father's mini-fridge, taking the first few drinks he could. He grabbed a couple of energy drinks that his father used to drink before going to the gym, but he also found his finger wrapping around cold glass that belonged to an alcoholic beverage his father cradled like medicine during the long nights. He took it all, marching out of his father's office without shutting the door behind him. He deposited all of the things he had stolen outside on the stairs that led to the dumpsters and alleyway behind the diner. He pushed the energy drinks to the side, and started sipping on the liquor he had stolen. The fact that he stole it didn't make it taste any better, but he refused to let it go to waste. He slowly downed the thing, the liquid level dropping closer and closer to the bottom.

It's almost gone now. He had been outside drinking for a few hours, so it was inevitable that he would run out. He wished it saddened him, but he was ready for the alcohol to be gone. He didn't want to drink it anymore. Everyone told him that alcohol was supposed to make him happier and lighter. All he felt was sick. He felt heavy and lethargic and nauseous. The sadness he had been trying to drink away hadn't left him. If anything, it had grown more permanent. What had been a few frazzled sparks too close to fireworks, a burning anger ready to explode like a bomb, was now a heavy stone sinking to the bottom of the river, dragging him down with it so water filled his lungs. He could hardly breathe, and the liquid fire he was drinking didn't make his endeavor to get oxygen inside him any easier.

He was pretty sure he was crying. His eyes were burning as harshly as his throat was, and he could barely keep them open as his vision blurred. He wasn't sure if that was because the tears were already flowing or if it was because of the drunken haze he was desperately trying to give in to. A hiccup ran up his body, tasting like saturated vomit when he allowed it to fall past his lips. He wasn't sure if the hiccup came from the sobs threatening him or the alcohol that was already torturing him. It was a terrible experience, and he almost found himself wishing his father experienced this exact level of pain and sadness every time he lifted a bottle to his lips.

He knew that his father didn't, though. He had seen his father drinking before. Schlatt would drink almost every night. Every time Schlatt got drunk, he would be unexplainably giddy or fighting mad. He would laugh with his friends, smiling as brightly as he could. When his father would see him, sometimes he would hug him. His father would smell like a minibar, but he was always eager to return those hugs. He preferred them over his father's glare and sharp tongue, calling him names and sometimes hurting him. Schlatt rarely meant it, he learned, but the bruises didn't disappear just because the intention wasn't there.

He thought he could experience some of that giddiness. That sort of happiness where the whole world was one giant funhouse, where colors were brighter and sounds were less harsh. He wanted to feel laughter bubbling in his chest, not vomit bubbling in his stomach. He wanted the tears to be from giggling so much, not because he felt alone.

He could hear someone fiddling with metal. His eyes lazily trailed to the bright red door behind him, watching the handle bounce as some pulled it down. The door finally swung open, and he wasn't faced with his father, pissed that someone had stolen his drinks. He was met with the gaze of his older sister. He honestly would prefer Schlatt to be standing there with dark eyes and snarling lips. Niki's sad eyes and pressed together lips were somehow worse. The threat of her crying made him feel worse than the threat of his father beating him up.

"Hey, Niki," He attempted to say. He was sure he came close, but his lips were numb and his jaw was shaky. He hadn't spoken since the workday had finished, and the nausea in his head was slurring his words together.

"Hey, Toms," She responded with a much firmer voice in a softer tone. She pressed the door closed behind her, visibly wincing at the noise it made. She walked down the first step of the stairs to sit beside Tommy. There was some distance between them, but Tommy could feel the heat radiating off of her. She had probably been wrapped up in her blankets on her bed. That, or she had been standing at the oven, finishing some of the baked goods to sell tomorrow morning. Later that morning, Tommy corrected, figuring it was past midnight at this point.

Silence descended between the two of them, as tense as a funeral and as wired as a bomb. Tommy felt like he was standing right at the edge of a cliff, a strong wind trying to push him forward. He could tumble straight into darkness. He could crash into the ground, his body splintering and blood coating all the rocks around him. It would be easier to let the wind take him, but it would also be extremely painful when his bones shattered like glass against all the things hidden in the shadows.

"Where did you get that?" Niki asked, breaking the silence between them. It was just the thin upper layer, though. It was just the literal silence that fell between them, not the silence that ran deeper, hiding away all the words neither of them wanted to say because saying those words out loud made them true. Made them real. Made them something other than the unspoken rules of the world and the mutual understanding that something was terribly wrong with the both of them.

"Stole it from Pops," Tommy responded with the truth. He had no reason to lie nor did he want to. He wasn't in the mood to go around in circles with Niki like they usually did. He was too tired, too cold, too sad.

"Tommy, you know that Dad is going to be pissed at you. You're going to get into so much trouble," Niki said, lowering her head into her hands like she was also tired. Tommy didn't doubt that she was. She ran the bakery half of their diner, and she was the only one doing it. She used to enjoy baking, Tommy knew, as he remembered who his sister was when he was nothing more than a blubbering child. She would grow excited to try out new recipes. She would let Tommy help her frost the cakes and sugar the cookies. She would play games with him as they waited for the timer to tick down, letting them all know that the baked goods were done in the oven. Tommy couldn't remember the exact moment when Niki stopped considering baking an enjoyable hobby and started seeing it as a draining chore. He just knew that one day he realized she did, and it wasn't long before he realized that he wasn't as happy as he wanted to be.

"He'd have to pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize the drinks are missing and that I took them. And then, he'd have to get off his lazy ass to come find me and beat me. Somewhere along the way, he'll realize that I'm the only person who can work the cashier now, so he won't beat me as much when he finds me. I've thought it all through," Tommy says, pretending like he wasn't bullshitting his way through that explanation. He hadn't thought any of it through. He just knew that he was angry when he tried to find his father. Since his father wasn't there to take the brunt of Tommy's angry words, he would have to suffer through some light thievery. It wasn't like he hadn't stolen before. It wasn't like he hadn't taken from his father before.

"You are the only person who can work the cashier," Niki said slowly, more to herself than to Tommy. The blonde nodded his head, ignoring the way it made his vision shake and his head hurt. He breathed out through his clenched teeth as he leaned his head back against the railing. The cold shot through his hair right into his brain, and he couldn't help but feel slightly better. Although the rest of his body was freezing, his head and chest were burning like he had been set on fire. The cold felt good, at least for a moment, so he was fine. Niki must have noticed because she said, "You're going to have a severe hangover tomorrow."

"It can't be any worse than how shitty I feel right now," Tommy relented. After the first few sips of alcohol, he remembered that hangovers were a thing. He had slowed down his drinking after realizing that, but once the body aches began to rip through him, he realized that a hangover was the least of his problems. It physically could not hurt worse than it did now. If the pain he was feeling now continued till morning, he would steal some painkillers from his father and use what remaining pain stuck with him to district from the fact that he was now at the cashier and making sandwiches instead of staying in the kitchen. The pain would also mellow out his personality, so he wouldn't be cussing out every customer who walked in. The diner couldn't get any more complaints than it already did. A hungover cashier who looked dead on his feet wasn't anywhere close to the worst thing Schlottzsky's family diner had ever done.

"Why did you drink? You never showed an interest in doing it before," Niki asked, gently prying the bottle out of Tommy's hands. He tried clinging to it, but his grip was nonexistent with how nauseous and cold he felt.

Niki was right, though she usually was. Tommy had never wanted to drink before. When he was younger, he wanted to be exactly like his father. He wanted to make Schlatt proud of him. He still never wanted to drink, the smell of alcohol making his nose burn and the slurred words making his ears hurt. Now, he didn't care how Schlatt saw him. He was content at just being another employee at the diner instead of the owner's son. He especially didn't want to drink now, seeing how the liquor changed Schlatt into a worse version of the sober him. Tommy never imagined his father could get worse, but alcohol seemed to have some sort of mystical power that could truly find the worst qualities in a person and amplify them. Tommy didn't want to discover that beneath his smiles and jokes, he was exactly like his father. He didn't want the alcohol to present all the parts of Schlatt that found their way into Tommy. It terrified him, so he refused to drink a drop.

That was before everything went to shit. He was left alone with his sadness and the unquenchable urge to make Schlatt's life a living hell.

The alcohol, thankfully, didn't reveal the parts of Schlatt hidden in Tommy. It only revealed a sad, tired little boy who couldn't even tell if he was crying or if he was just cold. It showed him the distorted image of someone who was so out of his depth that any sudden movements made him want to hurl.

"Well, I don't fucking know, Niki, maybe because our brother fucking left us," Tommy snapped, trying to force anger in his tone. Instead, his voice broke and a fresh wave of tears dripped down his cheeks. Niki didn't respond, looking away. Tommy stumbled to his feet. He ignored the way the world spun around him. He ignored the way vomit was starting to block his airways. He ignored the way his heart thudded painfully in his chest and his brother's smiling face grew fainter in his head. He stared at Niki, looking up at her from the bottom of the stairs. He breathed in heavily, everything crashing in his head as he desperately clung to some semblance of sanity and awareness. "He fucking left, and it was all our faults. It was because Pops is an abusive piece of shit that cares more about money than he does us. It was because apparently, you've already left us. It was because I'm so caught up with my own fucking problems that I didn't see how badly he was hurting. That I didn't see how terrible Pops is. That I didn't see how you're no longer here. Maybe I'm drinking because I don't fucking have anyone anymore, and I thought that the alcohol would make that lonely feeling go away. But guess what? It hasn't because I'm still alone. Alcohol isn't my fucking family. It's just a liquid in a bottle. But it's the closest I can get to what we once were."

Tommy stumbled back, the vomit finally pouring into his mouth. He spun around to vomit into the dumpster, his body clanging painful against the metal side. He wretched all the alcohol up, the taste twice as horrible coming up as it was going down. As his puking devolved into dry-heaving, he slid down the side of the dumpster, his hands gripping the edges. He hit his knees, the pavement scrapping painfully into his skin. He was sure that he was bleeding, but that pain was so far removed from everything else. There was so much more to cry about, so many different reasons why he was sobbing.

He felt gentle hands grab onto his shoulders like he was made from broken glass instead of flesh and blood. The hands pulled him towards them, and his body went limp against a warm body. Niki ran her hand through his hair as she held him, her heart beating harshly in her chest as she held back panic. If he closed his eyes, Tommy could pretend that he was a small child again, sleeping peacefully in his sister's arms as she read a bedtime story to him and his brother, Charlie, with their father lying somewhere near them, a content smile on his sober face. Tommy could pretend that he was an oblivious child again that didn't see the cracks in his family.

He could pretend that his father wasn't a drunkard who would hit his children after drinking alcohol or blood from the creepy dealer that came in every week. He could pretend that his father had children because he wanted a family and not because he wanted free labor for his diner. He could pretend that his father loved him the same way his father loved money.

He could pretend that Niki adored baking again. He could pretend that she wasn't spending more and more time at her friend's houses. He could pretend that she hadn't chosen to go to college as far away from that diner and that town as she could go. He could pretend that even if she was going somewhere far away, she would take him with her. Or she would come back for him, whisking him far away from the hellhole he found himself in.

He could pretend that Charlie hadn't left. He could pretend that his brother was inside the diner, sleeping in one of their rooms upstairs. He could pretend that Charlie hadn't been thinking about running away without anyone's knowledge or help for longer than Tommy ever could have realized. He could pretend that he hadn't found half a dozen letters in Charlie's room, each one addressed to Schlatt with none for Niki or Tommy. He could pretend that he knew where Charlie was, that Charlie would someday come back.

Tommy could pretend like he was happy. He could pretend that he didn't wake up each morning wondering why he kept waking up. He could pretend that his body wasn't littered with bloody cuts and unhealing bruises. He could pretend that he liked working at that damn diner instead of feeling the urge to burn it down. He could pretend that he had the strength and courage to run away like Charlie or move somewhere else like Niki. He could pretend like those halls weren't bitterly cold and lonesome without anyone by his side.

But none of that was true. Schlatt was a horrible father, Charlie was gone, Niki was there so infrequently Tommy thought she had already gone to college, and Tommy himself continued to stand at the edge of that cliff, getting closer and closer to the moment when he would let go and get pushed off by the wind. Or, maybe, he would jump without anyone's help.

"I'm going to take a shower. Don't wait up," Tommy muttered, pushing away from the warmth and probably the last hug he would ever share with his sister. He didn't look at her as he grabbed the bottle and the energy drinks. He opened the large metal door, stepping back into the physical warmth of the diner, ignoring the way his insides were now freezing cold. The door slammed shut behind him like thunder following lightning. Tommy didn't wince, not even when he started to hear someone moving around upstairs. Tommy threw away the glass bottle in the trash can, and he walked to his father's office. He put all the energy drinks back in the fridge, eyes sliding over to the safe. Charlie had taken over half of it, and the diner would go bankrupt any day now. Niki, luckily, had many friends she could stay with and a scholarship to her college. She would be fine. Charlie, with all the money he had stolen, would get a job and a house somewhere far away. Tommy and Schlatt were the ones who would be pushed onto the street.

The office door swung open, and Tommy didn't have to look up to know that Schlatt was standing at the door. He flicked his eyes up to meet Schlatt's unflinching gaze, the man heaving with anger. Tommy wondered if Schlatt was upset about the alcohol being gone or if he thought that Tommy was there to steal the rest of the safe's money. Tommy would have stolen the money if the idea of touching the things Schlatt loved more than him and that helped Charlie leave everyone behind didn't make Tommy hurt worse than the alcohol ever could.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Schlatt had the decency to ask instead of immediately pounding Tommy's head in.

"I took a bottle of whiskey," Tommy said. To be honest, he didn't know what kind of alcohol he had stolen. He just took the first one he could find. His vision had been too blurry- first from tears, then from the liquor- to read what kind he got. He supposed whiskey was a safe bet. He didn't know what it tasted like, but Schlatt usually drank it.

Schlatt immediately went to the safe. Tommy averted his eyes even though everyone in the family knew what the password was. It was Schlatt's birthday, not any of his children's. Schlatt closed the safe once he had made sure that none of the money was stolen. He looked over at Tommy with scrutinizing eyes, and Tommy was too tuckered out to do anything. He heard Schlatt sigh, and he suddenly felt something getting pressed into his hands. "Here's some painkillers. Take them in the morning. Don't touch my fridge ever again."

Schlatt left the office, turning the lights off and leaving the door open. Tommy closed his fingers around the pills Schlatt had given him. In the darkness, Tommy felt tears rising to his eyes. He wanted to sob again, but he held himself together until he climbed up the stairs all the way to the second floor of the diner. Instead of going into his bedroom, he turned into someone else's. He laid down on a cold bed that hadn't been used in weeks. He grabbed onto a bright green plush of a slime that he had won for his brother when the two of them had gone to the fair together without Niki or Schlatt. Tommy wondered if that was the last time he had seen Charlie smile.

He wondered if that was the last time he had smiled.