Is this why he did it?
It had started as one. Just one, to stop the trembling and to steady him and clear his head. Only he had well gone past that point now. His mind was a delightful, hot haze of false bravado. Alcohol swam through his blood, warming him from head to toe and providing the wonderful thought: Who gives a fuck.
He downed the rest of his glass and staggered to his feet, the world tipping a little in front of him.
Who gives a fuck.
It felt wonderful to wallow in selfishness. Desperate to avoid clarity – which was only bringing him guilt and pain and grief – he had turned to that hot, burning confusion his father had indulged in. Alcohol.
He had stared down at the first glass for a long time, not seriously wanting to drink it. Remembering the way his father had treated him, and the things he had said. Remembering the countless nights spent sleeping under newspapers, or behind garbage cans, or in trees in the park. Knowing that if he went home he'd get his ass kicked for some reason or another.
Well, I have no one left. I'm not going to kick anyone's ass but my own. And after abandoning Mom, I probably need a good ass-kicking.
After the first drink, it was easy to order another.
"Wheeler, are you drunk?" Linka's voice was steeped in disbelief.
"A little." He closed the door behind him, wishing he had returned later, when she was asleep.
She uttered something with dismay – something he couldn't catch. Hell, he wasn't even sure if it was English. She moved to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
"It will be okay, Yankee," she whispered. "I am here. Da?"
"For now," he sighed. He tugged out of her arms and disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door against her worried face.
Somewhere, he was sure, was a bottle of scotch his father had hidden.
In your son's bedroom. Great role model, you were. Guess I had no chance, really.
He dug around under his bed and pulled the bottle out. A fair measure of it had gone already.
Was this the bottle that finally killed you? Did you not get to finish it because your liver shut down half-way through?
He unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount into the water glass on his bedside table.
Well, here's to failure, Dad.
Linka had fallen asleep on the couch, the television flickering silently and bathing her in blue light. She awoke with a jerk as Wheeler threw his bedroom door open and stumbled out, an empty glass in his hand.
He looked so desperately lost. She could smell the alcohol on him – and something else. Fear, and loneliness and guilt seemed to seep out of him. He clutched the empty glass in his hand as she gazed at him.
"You look like you could use some sleep, Yankee," she whispered. She reached out to touch his arm and he wrenched away from her angrily, making his way to the opposite side of the room – a little unsteady on his feet.
"I'm not going back to Hope Island," he said, his voice too loud for the hour. "I've decided, okay? You can go home. Take my ring – Gaia can give it to someone else."
She bit her lip, her heart racing. "You know that nobody else can wear that ring. You know it is only supposed to be you."
"I don't care any more, Linka. I've had enough." He leaned his forehead against the window and directed his glazed eyes to the dark street below. He swayed slightly. "I should never have left here."
"I think you should think about this some more," she said gently. "You are in a difficult place, Wheeler..."
He snorted. "Uh-huh."
Her stomach clenched and he turned around to face her, leaning against the wall.
"Go," he said clearly, and his limbs trembled. "Go."
"Wheeler, please," she whispered. "Just get some sleep and we can talk about it in the morning. We are not expected back for a few days yet."
"You'll be better off without me," he snapped, suddenly angry. He went to the door, staggering slightly, and wrenched it open. "Just get out, Linka, and leave me the hell alone. Go."
Tears welled up in her eyes and she shook her head. "Nyet," she whispered.
It was so sudden she didn't have time to move. He hefted the empty glass in his hand and flung it at her, missing her by inches. It shattered against the wall and she ducked, shards flying everywhere.
She heard the door slam and when she finally opened her eyes again, she was alone.
She sank to the floor and pressed her palms over her eyes, willing her body to stop shaking.
He is going to be beside himself when he realises what he has done.
She drew in a shaky breath and started gathering up the glass, sweeping it into a neat pile and discarding it carefully. She checked herself in the mirror, but aside from being pale she noted nothing out of the ordinary. The glass had missed her.
He is going to hate himself.
She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. She was so shocked by what had happened she found it difficult to form a proper thought.
I should go and find him, she thought. But her legs were jelly and she found herself crawling into Wheeler's bed, curling herself around his pillow and sobbing until she fell asleep.
She awoke, heart pounding, to a crash from the kitchen. Nervously, she crept forward, her bare feet silent on the thin carpet, and peered out into the apartment. Wheeler stood at the kitchen table, righting the chair he had knocked over. She could smell the sweet, spicy scent of alcohol again, and she cringed.
"Wheeler?"
He didn't turn around. "What are you still doing here?" he asked softly. His voice was slow and tired.
"Waiting for you to come back," she whispered.
"Well here I am, slatkie," he answered quietly. His hands were shaking slightly and he gripped the chair, wanting to crumple into a ball and sleep.
She stood for a moment, shocked into stillness by his use of the word slatkie. Her stomach twisted a little at the flat, heartless way he said it, and she wished they were back on Hope Island and he had been whispering it in her ear instead...
"Wheeler, you need to stop," she said. Her voice was quiet. In the ridiculous hour, in the dark kitchen – light only spilling in through the windows from the street – it seemed difficult to raise her voice to anything above a whisper.
He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, swaying slightly.
"Oh, Yankee," she said in dismay. She moved towards him, but he shook his head vehemently.
"Don't, Linka," he snarled. "Don't even think about it." He staggered his way past her into his bedroom and slammed the door.
After a heartbeat, she followed him, her nerves stretched and tense.
He had stripped his shirt over his head and was sitting on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands.
"Wheeler..."
"Jesus, Linka..." He looked up at her and his eyes were swimming. "Get out of here before I hurt you again." It wasn't a threat – it was a fear, voiced, and she shook her head.
"Nyet, you did not hurt me," she promised, kneeling in front of him. She could smell alcohol. "You need to stop drinking," she whispered.
He gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah."
"When you are ready we will go back to Hope Island and things will be okay. Da, Yankee?" She took his hand.
"I can't."
"Of course you can." She edged closer to him, and, heart beating, kissed him softly. "We want you back."
She kissed me. I could have killed her and she kissed me.
He shook his head and his eyes were wide and sad. "No, I can't. Not after what I've done."
"Wheeler –"
"You have to go back without me." He tugged his hand out of her grip and got to his feet, separating himself from the warmth of her body.
Stay away from me, Linka. I'm only gonna hurt you.
She scrambled after him, panic hitting her like a punch to the stomach. "Nyet," she denied. "I will not leave without you." She hooked her arms around his shoulders gently and reached to kiss him again, aching to be the comfort he so desired.
"You can't be with me, Linka," he said, gently unhooking her arms from around his neck. "I won't have you suffer like my mother did."
"You are not your father," she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Wheeler, it is okay –"
"It's not okay," he said quietly. The calm, sad way in which he was looking at her terrified her.
"Please," she whispered, shaking her head. "Just come home with me."
"I'm sorry." He dropped his arms from her but she clung onto him.
"Nyet, please," she sobbed. "I will not go home without you, Wheeler. You are still hurting..."
"I hurt you," he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. "I'm never going to forgive myself for that. I'm just like him, Linka, and I'm not going to put you through that."
"You are not just like him!" she shouted, pushing him away angrily. "Stop it!"
He just looked at her sadly and she bit her lip.
"Will you do it again?" she asked desperately. "Will you try to hurt me again?"
"No!" he cried. "I mean – I don't know if I can promise that, Linka, but –"
"Will you drink again?" she asked. "Will you drink the next time it gets too hard?"
He gazed back at her silently.
"This was hard," she said, her voice cracking. "I know it was hard, Wheeler. But it is not your fault your mother is gone. She suffered years of abuse and that damage was beyond any repair you may have offered."
He was pale, but she pressed on.
"I have never faced what she faced," Linka said. "I have never faced what you faced. My upbringing was hard too, but it was a different kind of hard. I was looked after and cared for. I cannot begin to understand how it has made you feel, losing your mother like this, but you know better than anyone – answers will not be found in a bottle." She wiped her eyes and looked at him desperately.
"Please, Yankee," she whispered. "I know you are okay, deep down. I know this is not who you are going to become. You will not let yourself become this. It is only the hurt..."
He shook his head slightly, but she took his hand and squeezed it, her eyes gazing up into his.
"It is only the hurt," she repeated softly. "It will get better. When the hurt goes away you will wake up and you will see this is not who you want to become."
"I know it's not who I want to become," he whispered. "I'm so ashamed of myself, Linka."
She wrapped her arms around him tightly and she felt him bury his head against her, his body trembling.
"I can't go back," he gasped, crushing her against him. "I'm so sorry, but I can't go back."
She buried her face in his neck. "You can, I promise," she answered. "We love you, Wheeler. You are not alone, you know."
He gave up, then. He sank into the bed with her and held her tightly, his body trembling. His arms stayed tight around her, and she locked herself around him. They lay there together, not moving, not talking – just holding each other as tightly as their bodies would allow, until the sun finally crept up.
She wasn't sure what prompted him to speak, but his grip tightened on her as he did so.
"I threw a glass at you," he whispered.
She nodded quietly.
"I could have..." He trailed off and drew a breath that shuddered desperately into his lungs.
She burrowed into him, nestling into his body and tucking her arms in against his chest.
Wheeler clutched her to him. "Stay with me," he whispered.
She nodded. "Da, I will."
You should be telling her to run; telling her to get away from you. Did he feel like this too? Did he love Ma even when he hurt her? Did she try to leave? Did he beg her to stay?
He felt Linka's breath, slow and warm against his chest.
I could have killed her. If that glass had hit her... if it had hit her face... How the hell did I manage to get myself into this? I don't deserve her.
Dad didn't deserve Mom.
It's all just repeating itself.
He willed his mind to stop. He squeezed his eyes closed and breathed deeply. Linka smelled of his own shampoo – and something sweeter, like strawberry musk candies. The smell was wonderfully familiar and soothing – but his mind refused to be silenced.
She kissed me. She's going to stay with me and I'm going to drag her down into this pit with me.
Slowly, he eased away from her sleeping body and pulled his shirt back on.
She didn't hear him go.