Charlie shuddered as the tequila trickled down his throat.
He used to mix the stuff with sodas. Coke. Lemonade. Anything that would take the edge away from the bitter taste. But as time went on, the carbonated drinks got less and less, and the alcohol more and more, until eventually he was doing the shots neat. It burned as it passed through him.
He used to drink.
Charlie shook his head violently, sloppily pouring another shot and throwing it back as fast as he could.
The thoughts were resurfacing, and Charlie couldn't figure out why.
Maybe it had something to do with the pipe he was clutching, leaking the thick clouds of marijuana across his room.
He had no cigarettes left. No rolling papers, so he had resorted to stealing his late grandfathers pipe from downstairs to smoke his weed in. Of course, he had no idea how to use it. He'd crammed it full of the green stems and kept lighting them, inhaling the smoke and keeping it in his lungs until he was ready to pass out.
It had been funny at first. The feeling of being high, of being on top of the world. But now he just wanted to come back down. But he couldn't. And it was scaring him, to the verge of a panic attack.
All those repressed thoughts...they were coming back and devouring his very soul. Sucking the light that shrouded the skeletons until he was naked and exposed. Tremors skittered through his palms as he lowered the pipe, spilling the drug across his mattress. He did another shot, praying to a god he no lo get believed in that the alcohol would fog up what he couldn't bear to see. Not now, not ever. If he had to drink his whole adult life to ensure that, he would, just as long as those thoughts would please just go away!
But still they pursued him, throwing memories as though they were bullets.
Cold hands gripping his wrists.
Having his face crushed against a pillow, wet with his tears.
Gasping for air.
A cold caress across his spine which sent goosebumps of horror across his flesh.
Lips, pressed against the back of his neck as the unbearable, burning sensation took over his lower back.
The ache.
Hands gripping his limp penis.
And his mother, bursting in drunk out of her mind, and giggling at the sight before her.
The purr of her aroused voice as she climbed onto the bed next to them.
And being left like a used rag after what seemed like centuries, in a pool of semen and his own blood.
"Why, mom?! Why?!" He screamed, his anger laced with pure terror. He threw the shot glass as hard as he could against the window, causing a crack to snake across the shiny surface. Leaping up, he ran to the bathroom, seized his mother's razor blade and stamped on it until the plastic cracked.
With trembling hands, he gathered up the mess, running back into his room and kicking the door closed. Dumping it on his bed, he gathered one of the shiny pieces of metal, held it between his thumb and forefinger, and drew it up his right leg.
He gasped as the pain exploded beneath the metal, and dropped the blade in horror.
What the fuck had possessed him to do that? He'd just CUT himself, on purpose! He was no better than one of those little emo pussies who sliced up their own wrists for attention.
But it wasn't his wrist.
It didn't matter! He'd done it TO HIMSELF. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ!
But it felt fucking good.
Before he could stop himself, Charlie picked up the silver again, and drew another line. And another. And another. He slammed his hand down onto his leg, clutching the blade, and watched as the mark rose. It didn't bleed, and Charlie felt disappointment well up inside him, but as he watched, blood began to fill the deep wound. It kept trickling down his leg, and after a minute of amazed staring, Charlie jumped up. He grabbed a discarded pair of boxer shorts and pressed it against the cut, trying to staunch the bleeding.
But it bled through the material, drenching his fingers and falling onto the floor. In his intoxicated state, Charlie fell to the floor. He gave up on trying to stop the unhindered flow, and just stared in awe as his life essence covered the floor.
Charlie woke up an hour later, shrouded in darkness. His drunken fuzz still clouded his mind, but the high from the marijuana had gone for the most part. He shook his head, confused as to why he was passed out in a heap on his bedroom floor. Standing up, he gasped in pain, staggering to the light switch and flipping it on.
Holy fucking shit.
Broken glass and blood covered his bedroom floor. The blood had eaten up a pair of his boxer shorts, reminding him of..of nothing. Charlie forced his mind to concentrate on the source of the bleed, eyes travelling down until they reached his thigh.
Four cuts met his gaze. The first three were barely scratches, but the fourth.. It was a deep incision. From his hipbone halfway down to his knee, the ugly laceration seemed to stare back at him.
Charlie blinked in confusion, catching sight of glittering metal in his peripheral vision. He put two and two together, and cursed under his breath, throwing the bloody underwear over the shattered plastic and metal. He completely disregarded the blood puddle on his floor; its not like his mother ever checked his room anyway, and headed to the shower.
Hot water stung the angry wounds lacing his thigh, and he growled in pain, clapping a hand to protect the scabs. He didn't linger in the shower, only long enough to scrub the dried up mess carpeting his entire right leg in the shape of floorboards. After that he quickly rinsed his hair through with shampoo and anxiously ensured no blood lingered on any inch of his body. Leaping out of the hot stream, he dried himself quickly and headed back into his messy room.
Dressing in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, he stared at the ugly mess of his leg and changed his mind, pulling on pyjama bottoms. He glanced at his clock, which told him it was only 11:36.
11:36.
On a Friday night.
Fuck staying in!
Charlie undressed quickly, pulling on the first outfit he came across. He snuck downstairs, checking for his nerdy little brother or his bitch of a mother. Seeing neither, he simply walked out of the front door, not bothering to lock it, and headed to the nearest club.
He used to think sex was something that you should only do when you truly loved that person. Like it was the ultimate way of showing someone how much you really cared. But after everything with..with HIM, and his own mother..he just figured that the more sex he had, the less significant the occasion would be.
And it worked. Since...THAT, he had just fucked himself into oblivion. Fourteen girls. Seventeen sexual encounters since then. Since that.
He was managing. He was coping. Girls wouldn't hurt him, as long as they didn't know him as long as his mother had. Because that made girls hate him, and that's when girls wanted to hurt him.
Charlie fought his sexual feelings for guys. He girls, but he liked guys too. But he kept on fighting, because boys were bad. Liking guys was taboo and disgusting. And besides, guys were evil. All guys wanted was to take from him, with anger and mocking laughter. The same as girls who knew him for long periods of time, but with guys, it only took a minute for them to know that they hated him. Charlie knew that this was his fault, so he steered clear of them, and made sure that girls only got a single night before he disappeared. Just as he was doing now, with number fifteen. She was very pretty, with long blonde hair and a skinny frame, but with heavy boobs. He pressed his mouth against her neck as her groans echoed around his ears, and make sure to be extra gentle so he never hurt any girl enough to make them do less than moan.
Charlie was in her bathroom, hugging her razor blade. He was ashamed to admit the wetness dripping down his face was not all from the hot spray of water above his head, and he broke the encasing plastic. Later, Charlie'd say he smashed it accidentally, but was careful to make no noise as he dragged the relieving metal once more across the paper-thin flesh of his thigh.
He watched as the red ribbons diluted the stream flowing down the drain, and waited patiently until the red stopped to clamber out of the shower.
It was 4am, and another shared bottle of shared tequila, and yet another girl later, Charlie was home. He didn't bother to be quiet as he thumped up the staircase and into his room, grinning at the block across his thoughts. Throwing back the covers, he snorted in annoyance at his little brother Alan curled up yet again within the quilt, and picked him up by the collar of his gown, tossing him to the floor and collapsing into bed.
"Charlie?"'
The inquisitive ten year old child didn't even sound shocked at being thrown so unceremoniously to the floor. He simply got up, knelt on the edge of the mattress, and gently shoved his older brother until one eye opened.
Charlie grunted in annoyed acknowledgement, his glazed, bloodshot eye meeting Alan's saddened ones.
Alan didn't often see Charlie in this state. Charlie tended to avoid the smaller boy when he was completely ruined, trying to avoid showing Alan what happened when you grew up. But this wasn't completely new to Alan, who occasionally snuggled under the quilt of Charlie's bed, finding himself unable to sleep when he couldn't hear the older boy's snores from the next room. He knew he'd be awakened whenever Charlie came home because he'd be thrown onto the floor, but most nights Alan didn't even realise Charlie was drunk. This time, however, it was hard to miss.
"Did he do anything t'you?" Charlie whispered hoarsely.
Every night Charlie would ask this question, and ten year old Alan had absolutely no idea why. He knew that Charlie was referring to their late stepfather, but nothing more than that. He shook his head, gazing at his older brother with serious eyes. For a moment, Charlie stared back.
"Then get out, runt." He grunted, rolling over, and falling back to sleep again.