The edges of my sight are black as my feet drag forward. They feel impossibly heavy, weighed down by the surreal feeling spreading throughout my chest.
My eyes focus immediately on the piece of bright green cloth protruding from the mess of red metal.
A flash of auburn burns the back of my eyes.
The struggle for breath after a nightmare is carnal. Like an animal ready to run, the body surges with adrenaline as your body realizes that no, there is no immediate threat. All that can hurt you is in your mind, which is even more terrifying.
Long fingers grip the bedsheets, while the other clutches his chest. His shirt is completely soaked with sweat, and the action has his clothes sticking to him even more. He shivers violently. His eyes are wild, scanning the room for anything recognizable. Muscles tense uncomfortably as his body racks with spasms.
With each deep breath that passes, he feels his heartbeat slow. The world begins to fall back into place with numbers.
Constant, reliable, grounding numbers.
"Three….t-two… one."
The result of the episode has left the blue-haired man wide awake, but completely exhausted. It's not a combination he's unfamiliar with. If only the fucking mind would take a second to listen to what the body wanted, he wouldn't be in this mess.
Shrugging the thought, long legs swing over the bedside as he glances at the clock.
There was only one solution he'd found so far to help quiet the mind.
1:46 a.m.
Yeah, there was time.
With quiet feet, he opens his door, quickly gazing down the dark hallway. He waits a moment, searching to detect any signs of life. The night stays silent as he glides to the kitchen. With the utmost care, he reaches above the refrigerator to open the highest shelf. He curses as the hinges make a squeal, disrupting the calm of the night. The thought of being discovered was disturbing, but he'd come too far now.
With shaky hands, he pushes aside the large bag of flour, reaching far into the back. His elbow disappears as he searches further, standing on his tip-toes. A grin spreads across his face as he feels the smooth glass brush his fingertips.
Bingo.
The bottle is a little dusty, but the pint of whiskey glimmers under the street lights through the window. The caramel colored liquid swirls in his hands. Setting the bottle on the table quietly, he stares at it a moment with hands on either side of the counter. His fingertips and toes began to tingle as he stares, and an old familiar hunger burns in his chest. The itching of his palm finally gets the better of him.
The cap was a bit crusted from time. It crunches as he twists it open. The smell hits him first, and he feels weak at the knees. Taking a moment to savor the smell, he sighs, placing the bottle over his lips, upturning the glass.
As the liquor scorches his throat down to his stomach, he feels a physical release he didn't know his body needed. It starts in his brain, then to his back, down his shoulders and arms, ending in the legs and to the toes.
Taking the bottle from his mouth, he pants, relieved at the sensation coursing through his body. Setting the bottle on the counter, he unknowingly chuckles out loud. It isn't until he looks up that his face falls.
The bottle is empty. He's downed the entire fucking bottle in one go.
Gripping the counter, he bites his lip and hangs his head.
Sure, everyone has a relapse every now and again, right? But that wasn't even the problem.
The problem was, he knew it still wasn't enough.
The warmth was still spreading through his chest, and it seemed a bit easier to breathe. Grabbing the glass, he slides it across the granite before heading towards the door. Tearing on tattered old black and white high tops, he stumbles a bit to pull up at the heel. Regaining balance, he lets out a dry laugh as he reaches for his black leather jacket hanging near the door. He slips it on quietly, heading down the hall to the second door on the right.
The door is already a bit ajar, and the feathery blue hair is still. The blankets rising and falling gently in the small bed inside. Facing towards the wall, the little body seems almost totally still in the night. Backing out of the room, he leans against the hallway wall.
He blinks, looking at the ground.
Can he do this? Can he actually leave him?
Pacing away from the room, he curses under his breath as he walks in circles in the living room.
"...f-fucking… f-fucking hell."
Is he actually about to leave his son here? Completely alone?
You're just going down the block.
Anything could happen.
You need this.
What if something…
You need this.
The battle rages in his mind. The ugly demon in his thoughts beckons with promises of relief behind his eyes, ringing in his ears, making it impossible to think through the fog. He grips his hair with both hands, a frustrated sigh leaving his body. Something catches his eye as he looks across the room. With gritted teeth, he scowls at the image of the young woman standing near a piano.
That fucking picture.
Over seven months ago.
It was all the motivation he needed.
With resolve, he grabs his keys, locks the door, and pulls it behind him.
"A-Another whiskey, K-Kelly."
"Christ, Professor Sanchez. You sure?"
"Please, s-saave me the lecture. N-Now, can you just… just fucking g-give it to me, already?"
The short brunette across the bar scowls at him as she walks away. A moment later she returns with the sweet, intoxicating brassy liquor. He grabs it as she slides it to him slowly.
"Th-Thanks…" he mumbles, downing the glass in one tilt of the head. He scratches at the back of his neck, then ruffles his hair.
I must look like a fucking wreck.
He glances ahead towards the glass reflection of the bar. There's only a few other patrons scattered about at this late hour. It's almost four in the morning, and the manager calls into the crowd.
"Hello folks, we're closing in five minutes! Five minutes!" he calls in a thick accent.
With a sigh, he lays down two twenties on the smooth bar surface. His legs buckle slightly as he stands. Much more drunk than he originally thought, he takes a few steadying breathes before crossing the room. Somehow, he's able to make his way through the wooden doors and out into the world beyond.
He makes it outside, the warm summer night air hot and muggy. The ground feels like it's trembling beneath him as he takes a step, and he falls to his hands. He doesn't feel the impact of pain, but rather marvelous in the sensation of blood dripping from his hands.
The concrete is cool compared to the heavy air. He strokes his hands across the ground feeling the dirt and dusty over his skin, mixing with the sticky red. A flash from the corner of his eyes makes him lift his head.
"Wh…Wh-Who?" he slurs, staring as the tall figures comes closer and closer. Suddenly, he feels a pressure beneath his arms, lifting him to his feet. A gruff voice pulls him from the darkness.
"F-Fuck, Sam… Y-You're ok. Y-You're ok."
Questions flood his brain as they begin to walk. But the words can't form over his tongue as he stares at the pair of feet. He tries to focus on matching his feet with these others. After only a moment, he's disoriented by another flash. The last thing he feels is the soft feel of a bed under his tired body, and the sensation of someone taking off his shoes. In a moment of strength, he lifts his head to his caregiver. Spiky blue hair swirls with white and brown as he struggles to put the pieces together.
"R-R…R-Rick?"
"Y-Yeah, buddy. It's me. Y-You're… you're really…"
But the darkness takes Sam before he can finish the rest.
The disgusting scene is almost comically familiar.
Empty liquor bottles on the counter.
Blood on the walls and door handles.
A sleeping, unknowing, unattended kid in the back.
The only thing missing was a screaming wife.
Rick paces around the dark kitchen, hands in his pockets. From an outside perspective, the place looks pretty normal. Sleek dark cabinets, no dishes in the sink, stainless steel appliances, and even a fruit basket with some happy red apples. Leaning down, Rick opens the refrigerator. His face falls as he seems the scarce contents- only a carton of almost empty orange juice, a bottle of mayo, some moldy fruit, and a leftover pizza box.
Shutting the door quietly, Rick continues his investigation, sliding open the drawer next to the stove. Five packs of cigarettes and about three lighters rest in this space. Rick sighs, reaching in to grab a pack, stuffing it in his pocket.
It's just as Rick had feared- the surface image of Sam's life seems perfect, but dig deep enough…
It's empty and meaningless on the inside.
Shutting the drawer, he moves smoothly and silently down the hallway, stopping at the door ajar.
Rick's shoulders fall when he sees the bright blue hair. He walks over quietly to sit on the edge of the bed. Rick uncharacteristically is taken by the beauty of the child's peace, and runs his long fingers through his grandson's hair. The child doesn't stir, the gentle rise and fall of his breath continues in a steady pattern. Rick glances around the room, his eyes falling on the stars and moons nightlight swirling about on the small dresser. A grin spreads across his face when he sees the room littered with more posters about space- pictures and diagrams of all the planets, some happy looking aliens, and one that looks like the NASA logo.
After a moment, Rick's face falls. He feels the anger bubbling up inside him, building even hotter as he stares at the small boy asleep next to him, totally unaware of the evenings events.
Rick stands, and with one look back, he pulls the door closed behind him.
As the sunlight makes its way across the bedroom, the brightness lands on Sam's face. It very well could have been a laser beam waking him up, the pain making him wince awake. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly as he sits up.
"Ahh…f-fucking… fucking hell."
Sam rubs his temples with both hands, taking deep breathes.
He's had hangovers worse than this, sure… but it has been awhile.
He glances at the clock.
9:36 am
"J-Jesus Christ!" he exclaims, jumping out of bed.
How long has Ricky been by himself?
His mind is racing as he slams open the bedroom door with a bang. The apartment seems quiet, and his ears and eyes scan the living room for signs of his child.
"Ricky? Ricky?!" he shouts, running to his son's bedroom. Pushing the door open, he feels a wave of nausea sear through him. Sam grips the frame of the door, his breathing labored. Dark blue sheets are tossed aside, the pillow askew.
Empty
The bed is empty.
"H-He's FINE." A gruff voice calls from the kitchen.
Sam's ears perk as his mind processes the voice. Walking towards the kitchen, he sees the old man sitting on the balcony attached to the kitchen, the door open, smoking a cigarette.
"R-Rick… you? You… where's Ricky?!" Sam exclaims, his hands gripping the glass table outside.
Rick exhales with a scowl, gesturing to the seat across from him.
"He's with his Auntie Beth. N-Now, have a fucking seat for me here, right now, son." Rick spats the last word, making Sam flinch. Sam sits slowly, slouching down in the chair.
Sam feels numb as his mind pieces together the night's events.
"J-J…Jesus Christ, wh-what did I do last night?" Sam breathes, his eyes glued to the streets below.
He hears Rick cough with a laugh, more smoke wafting around them. Rick slides a cigarette across the table with a lighter. Sam quickly takes the offer, sparking the lighter with a quick inhale of smoke.
"W-Well, how, how about we… we start with the biggest fuck up, and work our way down, shall we?"
Rick flicks the butt into the street, pounding the pack into his hand before pulling out another. The silence is torture as Sam waits for him to continue before lighting up again.
"I-I'd… I-I'd say leaving your six-year-old home alone while you go out binge drinking h-has to… has to take the cake."
Taking a drag, Sam is quiet as he waits for Rick to continue. He's confused when he doesn't speak again, but abruptly stands, reaching into his jacket.
"L-Listen, kid… I-I … I-I'm not exactly the role model to… to listen to when it comes to, you know… responsibility and shit. Th-The only thing I can tell you for sure? I-If… if you don't get your shit together, y-you're gonna fuck that kid up even... even more than he already is."
Sam chokes as Rick pulls the portal gun from his jacket, shooting the green mass in front of him.
"I-It's been a long fucking night, Sam… We're… I-I'm going to look after Ricky for a little awhile. You know, while you figure out whatever the fuck it is you're doing."
Before Sam can protest, his father disappears without a trace.
Notes: I'm pretty excited to continue this story :) Thanks for reading. Reviews are always appreciated!