Whittle Myself Into Something

I grabbed bottle after bottle, smooth alcohol falling down my throat like ice, leaving my head spinning and my eyes swimming with alcohol based liquid. I laughed, I cried, I said things I never would have if my blood alcohol level wasn't through the mother's roof. I danced with endless guys, faces blurring as I moved from Jeremy McKinnon to some guitarist in a band that had something to do with low, whether it be blood sugar or a low point in life, I wasn't sure.

I grabbed another beer, forgetting even my own past as I felt myself let go. It was a different high than the one I felt on stage; it was more than becoming someone other than Becks, it was completely forgetting who I was. I always found deep philosophical shit in the weirdest things. When I was a kid, getting drunk was a rare experience and something I never did to excess. Now? I'm sober less often than I am drunk.

Faces began to blur, and I began to trip over my own feet as I tried to walk towards the alcohol table, bile rising in my throat faster than I could control it, and suddenly, I was outside, someone's rough hands holding back my tangled and in desperate need of a dye hair. Soothing voice went through everything, a voice I vaguely recognized but would never quantify while this drunk.

I knew I went to the party alone, since Erin lied and said she was tired, when in reality, something was bothering her. But a long time ago, we established that when, and if, we wanted to talk, we would. No questions asked. It was quickly made use of after my parent's ugly divorce that just got uglier and uglier.

And suddenly, it was over. No more stomach hitting my rib cage, no more spinning. For all intents and purposes, I was sober. And a face that seemed to have grown up was in front of me, looking me square in the eye. I knew those brown eyes, the kind face, the rough and calloused hands, and most of all, the messy hair that needed a cut and the fake glasses.

“Garrett,” I breathed, and he beamed, his hands still holding my hair out of my face. Realizing this, he let it fall around my face, red from both my blush as well as my heavy breathing. My liver was going to implode one of these days.

“So you do remember me, Rebecca.” I cringed at the use of my real name, and he noticed, but said nothing. “You look … great.” I growled a little, irritated not only because I was missing out on the greatest party I'd been to in awhile, but also because I had just puked after a record number of beers. Fuck.

“As nice as these cosy rekindling was,” I growled, standing slowly and doing a damage assessment. No puke anywhere on me, I could keep partying. How fucked up am I? “I have a party to get back to.” I began to walk away, but Garrett fucking Nickelsen, much taller than he was a few years ago, stepped in front of me.

“You just puked in an alley your first night on Warped and you want to go back.” It wasn't a question, meaning it deserved no reply as I pushed through him, but he wrapped his arms around me, nearly suffocating me. “No, I'm taking you back to Erin.”

“How do you know her name?” I hissed as he began herding me back towards the buses, of which Dressed to Kill's was the farthest back. I felt woozy, but wasn't about to ask this bastard for help, especially after our history together. Motherfucking asshole, coming back here after all this time. Garrett chuckled, shoving his hands back in his pockets.

“Well, I watched you guys preform. You think I'd pass that up, Rebecca?” I cringed again, and he smirked. “Or should I start calling you Becks, like everyone else does? When was that change, Rebecca? After that summer?”

“I needed a change, not that you even deserve an explanation.” I could see the bus door, and hoped I could get inside without anymore nonsense questions, without a single more awkward moment between Garret and I. This really fucked things up. I mean, who knew this kid would end up in a band good enough for Warped, and that we'd be on the same Warped Tour? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Garrett stopped at the door, shaking his head. “I think out of anyone, I deserve an explanation.” And suddenly, I was fifteen, almost sixteen, and he was sixteen, holding me in his arms the way no one had before, and suddenly, in my half drunk stupor, I was happy again. And then, in a snap, he was back to the asshole that stood here, looking at me like I was trash, garbage, because I fucked up. Like he was fucking perfect. He laughed again, shaking his head and looking up at the pitch black sky. “I mean, you're the one who left.”

My hand hit his cheek faster and with more power than anything else before.