Ch7. Thwarted
Drunken singing could be heard emanating from an alley, making its way down the road.
"Thre'ee wittle llamas r' dronin' ovr th' rivr, three wittle llamaaaaas r' dronin' in the rivahh~!"
Gilbert tripped and face-planted.
He laughed, finding every single bit of life to be extremely hilarious. He got up without issue—though he did stumble a bit, not all that stable—and took another long drink from the 20 oz green can of beer.
"Three wittle—little—llamas r' dronin' ovr the river, three wittle llamas r' gonna git delivr'd~!"
Another gulp, honey-colored fizz dribbling down his chin. He burped. Gilbert laughed some more. He brought the can back to his lips, this time emptying the container from its burning liquid.
He caught the drops from his chin with the back of his hand and gave a satisfied sigh that sounded more akin to a snake going "aaahh~"
The can was promptly disposed of. He made a motion to grab another can—except, he wasn't carrying anything. He paused, contemplating life. The albino laughed somewhat drunkenly, not drunk enough to be drunk-as-a-skunk drunk but tipsy enough to be very far away from sober.
"Kesese~! Six beers 'n under half n' hour! Ne-new per-so-nal levl!" he cheered, walking in a definitely-not-straight line. It was dark, and Gilbert made it his mission to go from lamplight to lamplight in a weird connect-the-dots game he abruptly made up around his third beer.
Gilbert had a high alcohol tolerance—unfortunately (or fortunately) the human body's metabolism rate for alcohol was one hour, half in the albino's case.
Except said albino just downed six 20 oz cans of beer in that amount of time.
Gilbert was somewhere between tipsy and drunk, his body having not yet been slammed by the binge drinking truck. And, when it did, he will get hit hard.
I wonder if drinking that much is dangerous, his somewhat clear mind suddenly supplied. It was starting to become hazy, going from odd slowliness to clarity back and forth.
A pause.
Gilbert found himself not caring if it was. He really just . . . didn't care. At all. That in itself should have been alarming to the teen, but, odd enough, he also felt as if he already knew but just never actually thought about it. He didn't care anymore.
"Tiredd . . ." he mumbled, slowly beelining towards the next upside-down cone of orange light.
Maybe the alcohol will knock me out, he wondered almost casually. Gilbert found himself wishing for it to happen, his physical and mental weariness grating on his bones and soul.
Or better yet, pull me into an eternal slumber . . .
Gilbert froze in his step. Such treacherous thoughts had never assaulted his mind . . . but, then again, his mind's self-censuring methods had been stripped away by copious amounts of alcohol. He was always forcing himself to be optimistic to the point where he never even allows himself to think those kinds of things.
"A deep, deep, etrnl slumbr . . . " he half slurred, half mumbled. The alcohol's effects were getting ready to pounce.
No'one would ca-care if I died right here, right—right now.
"No one cars und I dn't ca-re. Whut's da pnt?" Gilbert was starting to get dizzy.
I should end my mysry.
Gilbert turned around—very sloppily, something that should be noted—and started to walk in the opposite direction.
Public bathroom.
He was thinking of allowing himself to pass out in front of the toilet—maybe then he'd drown. A pathetic death for a pathetic person.
Let's-it make the girl's bathroom, then.
He was never in one, so that should count as seeing the world.
Gilbert dragged his feet, shoulders slumped, going in the perceived direction of the nearest public restroom that he knew of.
I could also le-leap off a build'ng. Any buildn'—not my house. Lud. Not Lud. Nvr Lud'wig.
Or I co-uld Stab myslf with a pencil, right in da hrt.
Or I cld covr' my-meself in bratwurst und git eatn' by Mr. Muffin'.
Eatin' Alice's Faml'y Econo'ics food wo-would do da trick. Tellin' her tha wld too.
Gilbert shook his head. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake.
Thr meds in th bathrm cabn't at home. Deep slp. Nvr wake up.
"Less effort . . ."
The public restroom that Gilbert was thinking of was a few blocks away.
He tripped, stumbled, tried to regain his balance but failed—crumbling to the ground. The world was turning into a blur, his stomach disagreeing with him on a whole new level. His breathing became labored, his skin clammy with cold sweat.
No. Mst fall sleep with head in toilet.
He groaned; he didn't feel like getting up—but he had to. Gilbert peeled open an eye. The public restroom was just in front of him.
"Must've been clsr th-tha expct'd."
With great effort and much grunting, Gilbert got back on his feet and hobbled to the women's section . . . his pale hand was on the knob . . . he was turning the knob . . .
The sound of a trash can being bashed by something very heavy resonated in the night.
Startled, Gilbert turned around—the sudden movement made him trip over himself and fall once again with a thud.
Gun shots, small holes appearing where he used to be mere seconds ago.
The fuck? His slow mind shot. He blinked—his brain started moving faster, thoughts pushing through the molasses, creating a newly-carved path that allowed for other thoughts to pass through at a much faster rate. His mind was whirling.
Something—someone grabbed his sleeve and pushed him up. He stood unbalanced, wobbly.
"Vat are you doing, you idiot? Get out of here!" exclaimed a male voice with a peculiar German accent. Gilbert had trouble focusing, trouble seeing. He was unceremoniously pushed to the side, a nudge to start running. Instead, the teen fell to his knees, something buzzing in his ears. The unknown voice cursed.
More gunshots. They sounded far away. The world was one, big, giant blur. It was worse than a Van Gogh, hazier than a Monet.
The voice cursed some more and something hard and metal fell against the side of his head.
A jolt of pain.
Gilbert blacked out.