A/N: THIS CHAPTER IS SHORTER BUT BRUTAL. ALCOHOLISM AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS ARE PRESENT IN THIS CHAPTER READ AT YOUR DISCRETION.
There was a moment. A small fleeting, almost insignificant moment, in which Inuyasha felt like crying. He felt the salty water well up in his large golden eyes, threatening to spill over and roll down his skin. Two weeks had passed since his fight against Koga. His injuries had subsided, the bruises were long gone, and the wounds on his face were closed; his one swollen eye was back to normal. However, his body was still in pain. He sat in the dark of his luxury apartment, in his living room. His laptop was connected to his tv as he watched the four minute and twenty second fight, watching as Koga lunged forward and started delivering blows to his face, each time he saw his fist connect with his face...his body remembered the pain, as if it was still fresh. "Fuck!" Inuyasha yelled, throwing the bottle of Jameson into the black marble floor. He watched angrily as the honey colored liquor spilled out over the floor, glistening over the broken glass. It was his second bottle, and it was now empty. Sighing, Inuyasha pulled himself off the comfort of his leather couch, and shuffled over to his kitchen. He pulled out a bottle of wine from the little wine cooler built into the bottom cabinets. He stuck his claw into the cork at the top of the bottle, twisted his finger, and pulled it out. He pulled the cork off his finger nail with his teeth, and then spat it into the sink. He looked over his counter to the TV, as the moment he knocked Koga out replayed. He heard the roar of his name, and watched as he climbed the octagon cage. Rushing to hug his coach and sparring partners. For a moment, the sadness left him, but that moment, too, was fleeting.
His heart raced as he took a long swig of the bottle, and stumbled his way over to his couch. He stood behind it, one hand grabbing the edge of the leather, his claws scraping into the leather, small fracture lines formed. He growled as he re-watched the fight.
"Or maybe," Koga said, throwing a punch, Inuyasha dodged, "maybe I'll take your belt first, then steal your bitch?"
His life, up to this point, was riddled with strife and hardship. He dealt with poverty, hungry nights, physical, mental and verbal abuse at the hands of his careless mother. Physical abuse at the hands of his drug addict father. Negligence at the hands of his brother. Though their relationship was cordial—it was far from amended. He had a chip on his shoulder the side of a boulder, and he always saw it as his biggest advantage. It made him fight harder, train more, more ruthless in his fight.
He was quickly starting to realize that his so-called biggest advantage...was quickly becoming his biggest disadvantage as well. Finishing off the bottle, Inuyasha threw it over his shoulder. He heard it shatter against the tempered glass of his kitchen cabinet. He exhaled deeply. "Damn it." He whispered, looking down at his hands. He felt a small droplet of salty water crash onto the skin of his hand. He ran a hand through his knotted, silver hair. He hadn't showered in well over three days, and he stank of alcohol and regrets. He slumped against the back of his couch. The room spinning and his hands were sweaty. Or was it his forehead? He couldn't distinguish. He drank to forget. But lately forgetting was proving to be more tiresome and bothersome than usual. Everything that had happened the last two weeks had taken a toll on Inuyasha, although he wouldn't dare let anyone know. How would they react? How would the world, his fans react? He could already see the headlines on every front page, every gossip website, every magazine.
'Inuyasha Takahashi: an alcoholic?'
It angered him to think about it. But nothing would anger him more than knowing that by walking down the street he would have one more label added to his name, stuffed into the list of other things that people thought of when they saw him. Reckless. Selfish. Arrogant. Spoiled. Criminal. Ruthless. Shameless. He could go on and on about himself—using all the words other people used to describe him.
What do I think of myself, though?
He walked this earth with no end in sight—no end point. No milestone at which he could see himself living happily. He chuckled darkly to himself. Happy? Happy was a progressive ideology, sold to him by the promise of glory, fame, women and championships. He sighed, sniffling as he felt his body heat up, the alcohol continuing to take effect in his system. He pushed himself up to his feet, and stumbled in the direction of his bathroom, stepping over empty beer bottles, tears of frustration running down his face. For the last twenty-three and a half years, he wondered constantly: why me?
Why was he chosen for this life? Did whatever higher being there is think that he could handle it. He would like to meet them, or it, one day—tell them how wrong they were for giving him this godforsaken life. 'Dear God or whatever you are,' he would start, 'Fuck. You.' He laughed bitterly, as he tripped over his pantleg, and fell on cold, honey marble floor of his bathroom. He slammed his fist into the floor, and yelled, almost unhinging his jaw. He slammed his fist again, feeling a bone crack in his pinky. He ignored the pain.
No pain can be worse than waking up every morning...alive.
He cried for a little, his cheek pressed against the marble; staring at his reflect in the polished floor, or rather trying not to, before he dragged his body up, taking quick, short breathes. He stumbled over to the mirrior, his palms pressed against the counter. He stared at himself in the mirror. This, he thought, is my true state. His eyes were teary and bloodshot, from insomnia and drinking too much. His hair was a matted, knotted, silver nest. His cheeks were flushed, as the alcohol heated up his body. He had worn the same lounge pants and ripped red t-shirt for days now. His mind was a blur, as the past days mixed and morphed into the present. He was beginning to see double, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the hit he took, or the alcohol, it could have been both. Wiping away his tears, he stared at his reflection. "You're worthless." He whispered to himself, sniffling. "Disgusting." It was so easy for him to throw diatribes at himself, it was natural. Why shouldn't it be, when that's all anyone ever throws at him. He hung his head and looked over to the large bathtub. Some part of him always wished he would just do it. He'd have dreams about filling up the bathtub, and submerging himself, with his eyes open so he could slowly watch the world around him crumble. He never had the will to do it, however. He probably never would.
Probably. Maybe. Possibly. Perhaps.
He hated the uncertainty of those words, as it directly reflected his life. It was full of possiblities, maybes', probabilities. He knew his life was rapidly becoming a fleeting occurrence in the history of the lives of his friends, and the world. He felt his body strip out of his clothing, and step into the shower to the left of him, by the entrance. He turned on the hot water, and let it run down his back as he pressed his forehead against the stone of his shower wall. He felt tears once again, prompting him to punch at the stone wall. "Stop fucking crying!" He yelled at himself, and banged his forehead against the wall. He felt his body give out from under him, and he sighed, smiling softly. His consciousness began to fade.
When he came to, he found himself surrounded by the warmth of his bed, a glass of water and an Alka-Seltzer tablet sat on his bed side table. He squinted against the evening rays of the sun, as they streamed in from the floor to ceiling windows in front of his bed. He was confused, not remembering the events that led to his waking up in his bed. The last he remembered, he knocked himself out in his shower. He heard the sound of a trash bag being dragged across the floor in his kitchen, and the sound of someone's voice. He tightened his hands around his white bedsheets, and tightened his jaw as he heard footsteps coming toward him. His breathe hitched in his throat. "Inuyasha...you're awake." He breathed a sigh of relief when he found that it was Miroku. He had a worried look on his face, causing Inuyasha to lay back down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. "You've been out cold for a day. I was worried. You hadn't answered me for four days." Miroku added, approaching Inuyasha's bed. Inuyasha glared at him, watching as he sat down on his bed. "You need to stop doing this." He said, sighing heavily. Inuyasha simply stared back. "You do." Miroku pleaded, putting a hand on Inuyasha's shin.
Inuyasha rolled his eyes, and turned his head to look at the wall next to his bed, focusing his vision on the cream color of it. He cleared his throat, but refused to talk. He knew he had to stop; he had tried. Every time he tried, he failed, like he did at everything else. He knew he was hurting Miroku—the only person who he truly thought cared about him. He sighed, causing Miroku to hang his head.
"Inuyasha...I don't want to lose my best friend." Miroku said softly, his voice breaking. "I've dedicated my life to helping you...please." He sniffled, wiping away the tears in his eyes. "Jesus, please just...just..do this for me? Please." Miroku pleaded, looking over to his best friend, who seemed to have tuned him out. "I miss you." Inuyasha looked over to Miroku, his jaw tightened. "I miss my best friend. My real best friend. The kid I met in primary school, who wore that god awful stained white shirt all the time because it was his favorite." He said, laughing a little. It earned him an exhale from Inuyasha.
"I've tried." Inuyasha replied lowly, sitting up in his bed. His head pounded, as was expected, seeing as he had been drunk for four days straight. "And that shirt wasn't my favorite...it was one of the only ones I had. But my favorite of them, I guess." He sighed, pressing a fist into his palm as he stared at Miroku. Miroku smiled at him, sadly. "My phone broke." Inuyasha said, and Miroku snorted.
"Your phone broke? Or you broke it?" Miroku crossed his arms.
"I broke it." Inuyasha responded, rubbing his forehead. He started to feel the pain of his broken pinky finger and the hit to his forehead. He winced as he put pressure on it, and sighed. "Go home." Inuyasha said coldly, watching as the sun set between the buildings surrounding his apartment. Miroku was taken aback, hurt flashed over his face.
"Inuyasha..."
"I said go home, Miroku." Inuyasha said, as he laid back down in his bed, pulling the covers up to his cheek. "I'm going to sleep."
"You have to eat." Miroku said sternly, "You have food in the kitchen, c'mon." He added, tugging at the white duvet. Inuyasha grumbled, tightening his grip on the covers. "Inuyasha can you please get up and eat something? You can't live the rest of your life feeling sorry for yourself and being drunk!" He yelled, causing Inuyasha to shoot a glare at him over his shoulder. "You can look at me however the fuck you want. You have to get up and eat."
"Go away!" Inuyasha growled, causing Miroku to yell in frustration. He heard Miroku huff and turn away. Soon after he heard the elevator ding, signifying that Miroku had left. Inuyasha realized that Miroku was just trying to help him, but he didn't want help. He wanted solitude.
A whole lot of it, if only for a few days.