48. Bailey
forty-eight
Bailey
I wake up in a pool of sweat. My heart is racing at a thunderous rate I can’t keep up with. I will my breathing to slow, focusing on each rise and fall of my chest. Nausea hits in waves as I fight to stave off a panic attack.
“Babe?” Peyton says, slowly rubbing her eyes and rolling to place her arm around me. “Are you okay? You’re trembling.” I didn’t even notice until she pointed it out. “Did you have another nightmare?”
Her warm hand rubs up and down my arm with grounding pressure. I focus on her hand, on my slowing heart rate.
“It’s okay, you’re okay. It was just a dream,” she says softly.
Only it wasn’t just a dream, it was a memory. The same memory that haunts my every waking moment and oftentimes, my dreams. Flashing lights, smoke, blood, vomit. Liam. I take a long pull off the bottle I keep on my nightstand, the burn a soothing balm.
“Bailey, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. I don’t know how you’re keeping your grades up, but at some point, everything is going to come crashing around you if you continue drinking this much.”
I sigh as the bottle clanks upon the tabletop, a sharp reminder of the depths in which alcohol’s claws have dug into me.
“I know,” I say, my voice heavy with shame. “I know I need to slow down but I don’t think I’ll make it through the rest of the school year without something to take the edge off.”
I know what I’m saying is absolute bullshit. I’ve crossed the line of abuse or misuse.
I knew it when I had to start drinking first thing in the morning. I knew then that I was dependent on alcohol and honestly, I didn’t give a fuck then, and sure as shit don’t give one now.
“I’ll do better, I promise,” I say. The lie tastes bittersweet on my tongue.