That's Just Gravy
Everwood fanfiction by LeeT911 (LeeT911@hotmail.com)
* * * * *
You were eight the year your dog died. Thirteen, the first time you kissed someone. Sixteen when you lost your virginity. You're twenty-five now, but you don't know what that means. You don't know why you remember these things. Those aren't defining moments. Not the important ones at least.
The important ones, are being fifteen and standing outside the glass of the ICU, watching them plug your older brother into twenty different machines. And then a year later, biting your nails in the waiting room, only to look up and see disappointment on the face of the world's greatest neurosurgeon. The important ones, are coming home after your eighteenth birthday party to hear the sheriff say your drunkard father killed himself by wrapping the family car around a tree. And then three weeks later, stumbling into the bathroom at night, only to find your mom on the floor, overdosed on three different drugs.
You don't take the anti-depressants anymore. They don't do anything. You don't go to your therapy sessions anymore either, because they do about as much. In fact, you don't even know what you do now, only that the days keep passing, and the sun keeps rising, and you hardly feel anything at all anymore.
You went to college. For one year. All the way to Denver. You couldn't hack that either. Apparently the emphasis wasn't so much on learning, but more on passing. At least you had a good roommate through that stretch. Kelly, the ebullient self-affirmed lesbian. She made you feel again, if only for a little while, if only for a romp in the hay. She told you, it was never going to go beyond that, that you weren't her "type". But that was okay. She wasn't your type either. You're not gay after all.
So you're older now, wiser, but still a broke college drop-out. There was that job a while ago, waiting tables, but it was crappy hours in a trashy place. Too loud, too smoky, and besides, you just couldn't keep up that fake smile (and your chest wasn't big enough).
It was almost six months you spent on the road, after getting fired, before deciding to come home. Not that this ever felt like home, but there wasn't anyplace else to go back to. The house is still here, and it's all yours now, but you just realized you hate it. You've been here less than half a day, and already you're head is filled with juvenile dreams of running away to L.A. and maybe becoming an actress. It shouldn't be so hard, you've been playing a part all your life. But that's just the beer talking. You know you can't do it. And you know that it probably isn't healthy to be sitting on the floor of your childhood home, chugging bottles in front of the TV while the sun is still up. But that's okay too, because you don't really have anything to stay healthy for.
You only drink foreign beers now. It gives you a story to tell. When people come up to you in bars, they always ask about your drink instead of your life. It's better that way. Not that you couldn't lie, but it's tough to keep the lies straight with alcohol racing through your veins. And there's a part of you that recognizes you're slipping into your father's affliction, but it's only a small part, and this is a democracy after all.
So you take another long swig of your European brew, and you find that you really miss Sparky the fuzzy dog. It's been seventeen years, but you still remember him. He was your first dog. The only pet you ever had. And you know that you're in no state to be taking care of any pets right now, but you're wondering why you're thinking of Sparky instead of Colin, or Mom and Dad. Somehow, thinking about the dog hurts less. And that's not just a side effect of your alcohol-induced stupor.
With a melodramatic growl, you empty your bottle, thinking that maybe you'll just sit here for a while, until the beer wears off, and then you'll drive out to Denver and ring up Kelly for a few more drinks. She'll let you stay with her. She always does. Maybe she'll even buy you dinner. What are friends for?
But right now, all you really need is to get the hell away from here. All you really need, is one more beer, and unconsciousness can take you.
But you don't reach for case next to you. You let yourself fall backwards to the floor, and you tell yourself that you're not like your father. You can hold yourself back. You're better, smarter, stronger. You're not going to kill yourself in a stupid roadside accident. You're alive right now, lying half passed-out in an empty house with the TV casting coloured shadows on your face, but you're alive.
And the rest?
That's just gravy.
* * * * *
END