The phone call is like a ton weight, crashing down onto his shoulders. Just the break in her voice causes the wooden spoon in his hand to crash down onto the granite worktop, rattling until it's silent; still. It takes a few seconds for him to be able to comprehend her words, the phone balancing delicately in his shaky fingers. He tries to swallow it- to be able to stomach her confession- but his throat feels blocked, almost even saturated.
"Do you need me to come and pick you up?" his words are slurred, as if they are clinging onto his tongue for their dear life.
"I-" she stops mid-sentence, her voice dissolving into the busy noise in the background. "George is going to drop me home."
The bubbling of the pot in the hob is switched off in an instant. He's shivering so badly that even a simple bowl of pasta is too much for him to handle. He'd end up sending the scolding hot liquid over his hands, corroding away at his skin.
He doesn't want to.
He knows he doesn't.
But the feeling is familiar too him. His mother's nervous admission. The prospect of her returning home drunk although he trusts her. He really does. He can remember the burning in the back of his throat, the compulsivity boiling in the pit of his stomach, the awful pounding in his head. The lack of this doesn't sit well with him. It's the one thing making this proverbial situation feel foreign to him.
She returns half an hour later, the fascinator askew in her hair; her make up coming off; her dress dishevelled. But sober.
That single sip had been the perfect ignition for the impulse for more. The perfect energy to send the oxygen pulsing through her blood vessels into flames. The way she falls into George's strangely helpful arms - cries into Connor's shoulder - takes a nauseous sip of water; he can see the combustion beneath her skin, beneath her eyes, beneath her pursed lips.
Yet his own is inactive, like one of Ms. Sparks' many failed Chemistry experiments. The fuel doesn't vaporize at all. The spark is redundant; the click of the lighter causing nothing but an irritating noise.
He should be happy. His thought process is that of a normal person's. He isn't hell bent on destruction. He doesn't want to turn to violent methods of coping.
But that's just it; he doesn't have a coping method any more. The fire starting had been so instinctive before; his immediate response to that crippling feeling charring away at his stomach. Yet there's nothing. His skin doesn't tickle with a desperate need for warmth. His mouth doesn't feel dry and chalky. All of the pain and the struggles and the feeling like he's about to blow over are there; he should feel that way. He should feel as if it's the only way to feel better.
But no.
He'd rather fight through it; to bite back the tears and comfort his mother. He can tell she's going to relapse at some point. He knows her too well. He can see the reaction about to occur; all of the fuss with the interview and Mr Lowsley and him not going to university has been the perfect catalyst.
"I didn't want to," she sighs. "I regret even that tiny sip."
"I know," but he doesn't believe her.