Remember My Name

Chapter 45 Jay #2

"That sounds perfect. I'm really glad it went well."

"How are you doing?" he asks. "How's work tonight?"

"Busy. Which is good. It keeps me out of my head."

"You sound tired again. Even more tired than yesterday. Sure, you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just counting down the days until I see you again. I can make it a few more days."

"Yeah, just remember, blue balls won't kill you," he jokes.

I laugh, knowing he's trying to cheer me up.

"Whatever's going on in your head right now, whatever the voices are telling you, remember that you're not alone and I'll be there soon."

"I know," I manage. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

I want to tell him everything. That the nightmares that won't stop and the cravings are getting worse by the hour. But I can't.

"Okay," he says. "Get some rest tonight. Please try to sleep."

"I will. Goodnight, Ivan."

I hang up and stand in the alley for a long moment. Then I go back inside and finish my shift on autopilot. By the time I get back to the motel, it's almost eleven. I'm exhausted, completely wrung out. I should be tired enough to sleep without dreaming.

I'm not.

I lie in bed for an hour after taking a long, hot shower, staring at the ceiling as always. The craving for a drink builds in my chest like pressure, like something alive clawing at my ribs, whispering promises.

You don't have a drinking problem. Not really. You can try one drink to prove to yourself you can stop. Just one drink to help you sleep.

I think about the pills in the bathroom cabinet. I haven't touched them in weeks, haven't even looked at them, but I know they're there. I can feel them like a heartbeat, like a pulse.

You could make it all stop. The nightmares, the voices. You just need to be able to sleep. Ivan won't know.

By midnight, I've convinced myself I don't have a drinking problem at all.

If I did, I wouldn't have been able to quit cold turkey like I did.

I'm not having the shakes or whatever alcoholics have when they quit cold turkey.

I just need to cut back on my drinking. One drink or two at night before I go to sleep is fine. It's no big deal. Everyone drinks.

I sit up in bed, my decision made, my hands already reaching for my shoes. The liquor store three blocks away is open for a couple more hours. I've walked past it a hundred times in the past few weeks, always keeping my eyes forward, always telling myself I'm stronger than this, that I can resist.

And I did.

And by doing that, I proved to myself I don't have a drinking problem. Not like other people do. I can put it down anytime I want to.

My feet know the way to the liquor store even though I'm trying not to think about where I'm going, what I'm doing.

Three blocks. Turn left at the intersection.

Past the closed gas station. Past the empty parking lot.

There it is. The bright fluorescent lights cutting through the darkness, the only thing open on this empty street.

I pause outside, my hand on the door handle. This is the moment. I can still turn back. I can still walk away.

But I don't.

Instead, I push open the door. The bell chimes welcoming me.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and bright, making me squint.

The floor is sticky under my shoes, decades of spilled beer and mopped-over messes.

A tired-looking clerk glances up from his phone, registers my presence, goes back to scrolling.

I walk down the whiskey aisle like I'm in a trance. My feet know where to go even though I've never bought liquor from this particular store. The bottles are organized by price, from top shelf down to bottom shelf, and I don't even look at the expensive stuff.

I reach for the Jim Beam. Cheap and familiar and exactly what I need. The bottle is heavy in my hand. The glass is cool against my palm. The liquid inside sloshes slightly when I shift my weight.

Fuck. You're really doing this. You're really throwing everything away. Three weeks sober. Three weeks of work. All of it for nothing. You're a sorry son-of-a-bitch.

I carry the bottle to the counter. The clerk doesn't even look at my face, just scans the barcode and tells me the price. I pay in cash, crumpled bills from my pocket.

He puts it in a paper bag without being asked, his movements automatic. How many drunks has he served tonight? How many desperate people has he watched buy their poison?

"Have a good night," he says, the words meaningless.

I walk out with the bottle in its paper bag, the weight of it familiar and comforting.

The walk back to the motel is different from the walk there.

My pace is faster now. My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding. Part of me is screaming to throw the bottle away, to smash it on the sidewalk and watch it shatter. Part of me is already eagerly anticipating that first swallow, already feeling the delicious burn.

What would Ivan think if he could see you right now?

The thought of Ivan makes me walk faster, makes me want to get back to the privacy of my room before I fall apart completely.

I let myself into my room, the key shaking in my hand.

The room is dark and I don't turn on the lights.

I don't want to see my reflection in the mirror, don't want to see what I'm becoming.

I go straight to the bathroom and sit down on the cold tile floor, my back against the door. I set the bottle in front of me and stare at it. The amber liquid glows in the dim light of the bathroom. My mouth waters involuntarily. My hands tremble as I reach for it.

I don't have to open it to know exactly how it will taste.

I've drunk enough Jim Beam in my life to remember every detail.

The first swallow will burn going down, harsh and punishing, exactly like I deserve.

It will hit my empty stomach and spread warmth through my chest, false comfort spreading through my veins.

By the third drink, my shoulders will unclench for the first time in days.

By the fifth, the voices will start to fade into background noise.

By half a bottle, there will be nothing but warmth and blessed silence.

You don't have to do this. You've made it this far. Three weeks is a long time. Don't open it. Walk away. Call someone. Call Ivan. Call Mick. Call the number on that card. Don't do this to Ivan. Don't open the damn bottle. Remember the look in Ivan's eyes. Remember.

But I can already feel the burn in my throat even though the bottle is still sealed.

I can already feel the warmth spreading through my limbs.

My body remembers everything, even when my mind is trying desperately to resist. It remembers how good it feels to let go.

How easy it is to stop fighting. How simple everything becomes when you just surrender to the craving.

One drink. Just drink one. You can stop after one. You have control. You're not like those other people. You don't need to go to meetings. You can handle this.

That's the lie I tell myself over and over.

The seal cracks with a soft sound when I twist the cap, like a bone breaking, like something final. The familiar smell hits me full force now—rich and sharp and overwhelming, filling my nose, my lungs. My face leans toward it like a plant toward sunlight.

I bring the bottle to my lips with shaking hands.

The first swallow burns exactly like I knew it would. Fire down my throat, liquid heat spreading through my chest. The second swallow is easier, goes down smoother. The third is almost pleasant.

I don't stop at one drink.

I drink until the edges of the room start to blur, until the hard lines of reality go soft. I drink until I can't feel the cold tile under me anymore. I drink until the voices in my head fade to a distant murmur.

And then, somewhere around the halfway point, when the bottle is lighter in my hands and my head is swimming, the warmth turns sour.

The shame hits me like a hard fist to the gut, sudden and overwhelming.

You fucking failure. You weak, pathetic piece of shit.

You couldn't even make it three weeks. Ivan believed in you.

He paid fifteen hundred dollars he saved for years to fix your mess.

He told you that you were worth fighting for.

And here you are, sitting on a bathroom floor, drinking yourself stupid because you couldn't handle being alone for a few more days.

You're disgusting. He'll never love you now. He'll leave you. You don't deserve him.

I look at the bottle in my hand—half empty now, the liquid sloshing against the glass—and I feel sick. Not from the alcohol, though that's starting to turn my stomach. From myself. From what I am. From what I've always been.

He's going to find out. He's going to see what you really are. And he's going to leave. Because you're not worth staying for. You never were. You had everything and you fucked it all up.

The warmth is gone now. There's only cold, seeping into my bones. Cold and shame and a self-hatred so thick I can taste it on my tongue, bitter and choking.

I ruined it. I had one fucking job. Stay sober for a few more weeks until we could figure out the next steps. And I couldn't even do that. I couldn't even manage the bare minimum.

You need to make it stop. The shame, the voices. Face the truth. You've already lost him. You were never meant to be happy. Make it stop. Make it all stop.

The pills.

The thought cuts through the fog in my brain, sharp and clear. The pills in the cabinet. The ones that make everything quiet. The ones that could make everything go away permanently.

I pull myself up using the edge of the sink, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated. The face in the mirror is someone I barely recognize—hollow eyes, gray skin, a drunk wearing my features. A fucking waste of space. Ivan wouldn't be able to look at me now.

The orange bottle is right where I left it hidden. Xanax. The label is worn thin from all the times I've held it, thought about it, put it back.

I don't put it back this time.

I sink down to the floor again, the whiskey bottle on one side, the pill bottle on the other. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the cap.

You broke your promise. Why keep pretending you're going to get better? You know how this ends. You've always known. Ivan deserves better. He's so beautiful.

The cap comes off with a soft click that sounds too loud in the silent bathroom.

I shake the pills out into my palm and try to count them. How many will it take to make it all go away? I have enough.

The bathroom tilts around me, the walls breathing. The whiskey and the shame churn together in my stomach, rising like bile. I look at the pills in my hand, and somewhere far away, I hear a voice that sounds like Ivan begging me to stop.

But he's not here. The voice isn't real.

The only voice that's real is the one in my head.

This is who you are.

This is who you've always been.

This is how it ends.