The first time it had happened, it had been no more than an accident. Ste had been drunk – not unusually so – and had stumbled into the little dining table in the living area of the flat. The whiskey tumbler had cracked and broken into two pieces beneath his hand, and the sharp bite of the jagged edge drew blood from his palm.
Ste had stared at the redness of it; the shiny pool on the table top, and the way it would quiver slightly as another drop joined the puddle. He swallowed, calmly frozen in the moment, the heat of his blood trailing over his fingers. He stood up straight, his brow creased, and he reached for a shirt or whatever was near and held it against the cut, pressing firmly. The pain was detached from himself. His mind focussed on it, trying to pull it back. For a moment, he felt calm.
After the cut had congealed, Ste cleaned up and didn't think much else about it. He carried on as normally and as drunkenly as he had been doing. Perhaps the drunkenness increased, but he'd hardly been counting units. The numbness was harder to reach as time passed, and a tiny, nagging voice at the bottom of his brain was scratching away. It told him that soon, the alcohol probably wouldn't be enough.
A few weeks later, sat on the floor in the kitchen, Ste found himself thinking of the distant pain, and how his brain had focussed on the physical sensation, rather than the agony in his mind and heart. He was numb from the whiskey and lager he'd steadily consumed since waking, but not as numb as he'd would have liked to be. Perhaps numb doesn't work any more, he thought. I need more than numb now.
The first cut was too deep. It hurt in the wrong way. It wasn't like the clean slice of the broken glass. It wasn't quite right. Ste put down the bread knife, nursing the wound on his forearm and wondering how he was supposed to re-create the cracked tumbler moment again. Should he be more drunk? Less drunk? Should he make the cut with a pair of scissors, a steak knife, a straight knife – or would it only work with glass?
His arm sent splinters of pain coursing up to his shoulder. Ste flexed it, stretching it out and curling it back in again, the weeping cut opening and letting more redness out. He sighed. This was stupid. This was the sort of thing he'd read about in 'real stories' magazines and snorted at. How thick could he be? What was he really thinking he'd achieve? There were bandages and gauze under the sink, and Ste clumsily wrapped some around the cut to stop the bleeding and help it seal.
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Ste paused, listening. He crept up behind the door and slid the chain into place, then yanked it open as far as the chain allowed. Doug. He slammed it shut again. "Go fuck yourself," he instructed, matter of factly.
"Ste-"
"No."
"Pl-"
"No!"
"Ste, we need to talk ab-"
"No!" Ste repeated again
"Come on!" Doug shouted through the door. "You need to stop pushing me away! I'm your friend, Ste!"
"Do you promise not to take every opportunity you can to remind me that I'm so much better off without Brendan; that I've finally got a chance to be myself now I'm on my own? I'm sick of it, Doug! You think hearing that actually makes me feel better? Do you?"
"I won't say anything like that. I promise," Doug replied.
Ste pretended to think about it. "Liar," he spat. "Get lost, Doug."
He moved away from the door and shut himself in his bedroom. The police had returned a lot of Brendan's things, and they were scattered around the room in bin bags and taking up pretty much every available square inch. For a man who'd spent a lot of time running, he'd had way too much stuff. The clothes were overflowing, and with no spare storage at number 2 any more, Ste had accepted every last thing. Eileen and Declan and Padraig had declined any interest in any of it. Cheryl had not responded to any texts, calls, messages or emails yet.
Ste was just going to have to keep it. He didn't see the sense in throwing or giving it away. Brendan would kill him if he ever got out and found that Dennis Savage now owned his cranberry boots with rhinestone detail. Besides, getting rid of all these things meant accepting that Brendan was never coming back, and Ste just wasn't ready to do that yet. Cheryl could have a change of heart, and Brendan wouldn't breathe a word of it to Ste, so that Ste would come home one day and just find Brendan lounging on the couch. "D'ya miss me?" he'd ask. Then Ste would jump on him in a fit of rage and beat him to death.
He was pulled out of his fantasy by Doug knocking on the window. With a sigh, Ste tip-toed over the bed, curled up under the duvet and pretended he didn't exist. The cut on his arm throbbed soothingly, and he poked the bandage.
"You can't keep doing this, Ste!" Doug was shouting through the glass. "You can't keep living like this!"
No, Ste agreed. He couldn't. Doug had hit the nail on the head. Tomorrow, he was gonna find Cole, and he was gonna get himself some weed. Brendan would hate him for it, but Ste didn't care. He was desperate. It would help. He was sure.
He was sure.