The Aftermath

I put my drawing equipment away as soon as I got in. With an urge to do something, anything, I then started tidying up my room. I put dirty laundry away, stacked the school books feeling slightly bad for all the days I had skipped, and dusted my drawer with my sleeve.

I worked efficiently trying very hard to keep my emotions in check. And, for a while, I managed. Only upon finding my still half full bottle of vodka, I hesitated. I knew I should just pour the thing down the drain. But I could not make myself do that.

Instead I hid it carefully in the cupboard under the sink. I closed the door gently and stepped back trying to breathe deeply. And then I snapped.

I hit my fist against the wall with as much strength as I could muster, only just coherent enough to be thankful that it was one of the sturdy outer walls lest that I make an actual dent, before I curled up on the floor, cradling my throbbing knuckles.

"I can't even pour the fucking vodka out," I said to myself, disgusted, "after what happened, I can't even pour the fucking vodka down the drain."

I felt my tears starting to fall and surrendered to the misery.

"Mikey," I moaned, pressing myself against the wall, "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey."

I do not know how long I sat there chanting, crying and further in pain because of my hand, but eventually the tears stopped. They always did.

Carefully I tried wriggling my fingers. It hurt. It was a good thing I had spent the better part of my afternoon sketching. It would quite probably be a while before I could draw again.

"Serves me right," I whispered to the empty room, "serves me right, for what I've done."

There was a time when I knew I had caused Mikey's death. It was never a question to me. But it was not long after the accident I had realised that it was worse than that. I might as well have killed him with my own two hands. I killed him when I gave him those drugs. I killed him.

Back when I had realised that, realised that my parents already knew this that was when I moved out and never looked back.

My tears started running again and I moaned pulling at my hair, before clenching my already sore hand into a fist. The physical pain was barely even a distraction, but it was there. The tiniest bit of reality binding me to the material world.

The tears were still streaking my face as I got to my feet. Slowly moving around the kitchen to prepare dinner, trying as much as possible to do it with only one hand, I let them.

First when I sat by the table I ran my hands over my eyes, drying my cheeks, before reluctantly starting to eat.