Scars That Tell Tales

The bottle of Jack laid empty on my floor, just a few inches from my hand. I was sprawled across the plush carpet that covered my bedroom floor with an empty head, and an empty bottle. My eyes were trained on the ceiling, tracing the cracks that cover a vast majority its surface. A small sigh escape my lips and I see his sleeping face. I wonder if he ever worries when he wakes up and I am gone. I roll over and bury my face into the floor, I breathe in only to smell my own breath. Ack. It smells of booze. I wobble up and make my way down the hall. I open the bathroom and stare into the mirror, red eyes peer back at me blankly. I tug at my lids as if checking for a lost contact for no reason other then to give myself something to do.

My purpose for entering the bathroom resurfaces on my slightly foggy mind. I pick up my toothbrush, dab toothpaste on it and brush until my gums bleed. I spit, rinse and stare at the mirror once more. As I exited the bathroom I felt the cool tile against my feet and smiled at the strange comfort it always seemed to give me. I looked into the kitchen knowing the fridge is as barren as I left it the night before. I made a mental note to go food shopping later when my phone rang. I picked up and refrained from cursing, I don't really like talking, period.

"You left without saying goodbye again." He said a yawn hidden just under his tongue, it was apparent in his voice.

I manged to mumble out a sorry, which was a painful task due to my dry throat. He went on about maybe seeing me during the day for the hundredth time. I give him the same answer, that's what happens when you ask the same question; no matter how you word it the answer will always be the same, always. He sounded disappointed but not surprised, said an abrupt goodbye and hung up. I stood staring at the wall listening to the dial tone for a while. The way it goes on reminds me of a phone heartbeat, when it cuts off I laugh a dark laugh. All heartbeats stop, I ignore the knot in my chest as thoughts of my mother flicker across my mind. I got a quick itch in my hand and knew I had to leave my house.

I sprint to my room, grab the same shirt from last night throw it on. Pull a pair of red jeans on, pull up my slip on boots. I gloss my lips a bit, run my hand through my hair then grab my keys. I grab a jacket and bolt for the door. I paused only long enough to lock the door. Just as I turned the key the tears started to burn my eyes and pool at the edges.