A/N:
Same goes for this chapter as the last and as it will for the next few chapters. If you don't have an open mind or don't like sad and messed up stuff then skip ahead.

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Some people reach for a pack of smokes every time something even remotely stress-inducing happens. There's a lot of people who take anti-anxiety medication every time their nerves start to get increasingly unchecked. A good amount of us reach for a glass of something much stronger than a glass of water when life starts to get us down. Lastly, whenever life's challenges lead to an ungodly amount of pent-up frustration most of us need a long and hard fuck to let off some steam.

Right?

I think most people would agree that one of the aforementioned things is something they'd consider their vice of choice. Well, if one is old enough to be buying a pack of smokes and have a drink, then I think most everyone can agree on that. Whether they'd like to admit it or not, most of us need something to help us get through this thing called life. Because life can be fucking daunting even at the best of times.

Now, here's the difference between a regular person and me, an addict, an addict's thought becomes a compulsion, it's not just a thought any longer. It's a compulsion so strong that I can't think of anything else. Once that thought enters my mind, my brain is now hardwired to want that one thing or things that will make it all better.

They can make it all better. They can take the pain away.

Control has never been my area of expertise, to say the least, which is where this little thing called addiction gets tricky, folks. This is where things have the potential to get really really fucking bad for someone like me. This is because when life's bullshit begins to build up in piles around me not only do I want the substance or substances of my abuse, there can never be enough of it, of them. My brain goes on a loop repeating a mantra I've heard so many, many times. And it plays over and over and over again.

I need it and I need it now. I need more and it will never be enough. None of it will ever be enough.

Now, imagine being me, someone who does all of the above things on a regular basis. Just try and imagine what my brain is telling me, screaming at me. Consume it all. And this is where my addiction becomes a serious problem, because I pile it all on top of each other. There's no time for recovery when you go on a bender, nope. Just black out and start over because you can't stop.

Not when the demons are pounding repeatedly throughout my skull every time I am anywhere remotely near sober. 

Thank you, Dopamine, for making my synapses clog up and become desolate things because all of the above is how I ended up here, on Trevor's bathroom floor, having a series of rum fits. Most individuals don't know what that one is and their lucky that they don't.

So. Fucking. Lucky...  I think to myself as my body convulses on the tile floor.

I hate it when this happens, hate when I do this to myself. I fucking hate having seizures because I don't keep up with my drinking or do other things than drink. It happens almost every time I go on a bender, almost every time I chronically abuse alcohol to the nth degree. By that I mean after I consume more poisonous concoctions than should be humanly possible for an extended period of time. 

This is the danger of substance abuse. If the drugs and alcohol don't kill you, then the withdrawal might.  

I've been seizing on and off for a good minute, but at least it's not the worst I've ever had. At least this is a minor series of seizures. Some say you can't remember when you seize but I remember the utter loss of control and the way my teeth clench together so hard I think they're going to shatter.

It's been two weeks since I had my fucking terrible shit-show of a breakdown in Monica's apartment. I've never been more fucking appalled at myself for anything in my life. Since then, I've been using and abusing harder than I ever have in my life. If you know me, which no one really does, then you know that's a fuck-ton of alcohol and amphetamines I've been pumping into my veins.

"Not again, Sean." Trevor sighs above me before pulling me up by my shoulders to a standing position. "Shit." He says as he steps both or our bodies into the shower. Thankfully he did because I hadn't realized I'd begun to vomit. "It's alright, buddy. I got you." He angles my head downward, so I don't choke and die on my own regurgitation.

Jesus fucking Christ. I'm such a fucking mess.

Trevor is the closest thing I have to family. He's like a brother to me since we've been friends for basically our entire lives. He and I had grown up together. Our fathers worked with each other and the two of them are basically the same terrible fucked-up person. 

The only thing Trevor had now that I didn't, well, besides blonde hair and blue eyes, is a shitload of money and a mother who didn't go completely insane. His father was a complete asshole but at least he'd left Trevor a trust fund. Mine, well, that asshole left me with absolutely nothing but a head full of traumatic past experiences.

David the Douche Cunt. Yeah, that's my asshole father. Father, if you can even call him that. Other than providing my mother with the batch of sperm that created me, he's the farthest thing away from the term father.

Back to my current situation, puking in my best friend's shower. Trevor had been letting me stay at his loft with him for the past few weeks. He'd offered me the chance to live here a million times previously but I couldn't accept that. I'm not an entire charity case, regardless of my current state.

I couldn't take the risk of running into Monica if I went back to my place and that's the reason I've been staying here. I'd been working at the club every day, helping out Trev as usual and then getting completely fucking loaded with him every evening. Judge us if you want, see if we fucking care.

Surprise. We don't.

After a few minutes, Trevor situates me in the shower wordlessly, trying to make me regain my footing. Usually, I would loathe the idea of another man's hands on me but I feel like my body is failing me at the moment. This might be the moment I'd actually fucking killed myself because I feel like I'm knocking on death's door.

Trevor steps out of the shower, his clothing is now soaking wet. "You need to slow it down, Sean." He shakes off some of the water. "You're going to fucking overdose if you don't."

"Fuck if I don't know it, man." I sputter out. "I feel like fucking hell." I press my head on the shower wall as another wave of nausea rolls through me.

"What's got you so fucked in the head lately?" Why he's still standing there in dripping clothing I don't even know.

"Go get changed man." My words are barely intelligible. I need something to drink, my mouth is a dry wasteland.

"I'm fine but you man, you're a fucking mess." I roll my head to the side and look at him through the stream of water. He looks pissed. Pissed and worried. "I want to know what's got you so fucking triggered lately." He puts his hands on his hips "Tell me this isn't about that fucking girl from the club the other day, Sean."

Fuck. He knows me too well.

I shrug as I turn off the shower. I try to step out and almost fall flat on my damn face. Trevor catches me, supports my weight and then basically drags me into the guest bedroom. Once there, I support my weight on the dresser while he rummages through it, pulling me out some clothing.

"Good thing we're the same fucking size." He drops some sweats and a t-shirt on top of the dresser.

"I'm just way hotter." I slur. No matter how fucked up I ever get or how close to death I may be, at least I can always count on my arrogant, egotistical personality to always come out.

"Wouldn't you like to think so?" Trevor chuckles. "You know, women love tall guys with blonde hair and blue eyes."

"Gag me." I manage to roll my eyes at him. "You're not even that tall."

"We're both 6'3, asshole."

My lids are starting to get extremely heavy and I feel like my body is going to give out on me at any moment but I still respond. "They only want you for your money."

"Yeah, whatever makes you feel better, man. As long as I'm getting my dick sucked I'm not complaining."

I wasn't going to argue with him on that one either. I hadn't gotten my dick properly sucked in what seems like an eternity. The last time I had even tried was with some girl... Sharon, Shannon? I can never fucking remember their names. Anyway, she had brown hair, wavy brown hair, just like Monica. She had wanted to fuck like women always do, but I didn't want to. 

I had closed my eyes trying to think about the only person I had wanted to be with. When she had put her hands on me it felt wrong. Everything about her was wrong. When she'd gotten on her knees in front of me ready to blow me away, literally, I had torn myself away from her. I didn't want to be touched by anyone else. I just wanted Monica. 

I only want Monica. Monica... 

That's the last coherent thought I have before I completely collapse in a pile of my own self-loathing.

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A/N:

Triggers here, triggers there, expect the next few chapters to have triggers everywhere!

Anyway, how are we all doing today? Hopefully it's a good day and not a shitty one. As always, thank you for reading this messed up book and if you do decide to read the next few chapters, just remember the above statement. It does get better. I mean, I think it does.