34. Bash
Bash
A Little Over A Year Ago
“You’re a sophomore in college, Sebastian…You’ve gotta figure out what you want to do. Don’t waste your education partying. You’re too smart to throw away your future.”
My dad’s words play on a loop in my mind as I try to find my bearings.
I look around the room I’m in, but I can barely focus with the pounding headache I have—no doubt from getting blacked out last night.
I groan and shift on the mattress, trying to piece together where I am.
My head feels like it’s been stomped on by a herd of elephants, and the taste of something bitter and stale stuck in my mouth makes me almost gag.
I blink against the sun coming in from the window, wincing as the throbbing behind my eyes gets worse, and then I look down at the pink floral sheets wrapped around my body.
This definitely isn’t my room.
My body feels heavy when I try to move. The air smells like obnoxious perfume and stale sex—sex I don’t even remember having.
I carefully turn my head and immediately regret it. Yep…that’s a half-naked girl lying next to me. Her dark hair is sprawled over the pillow, eyes closed, still asleep. I don’t really recognize her. Did I know her? Should I know her? I don’t know, and I honestly don’t really care. I never do.
I look around again, and everything is slowly coming back into focus.
I realize I must be in this girl’s dorm room.
The only other bed across from us is empty, thank goodness.
Having a random hookup is already shameful enough.
I don’t need an audience, not one of my kinks.
I actually don’t have any if I think about it.
Sex has always been transactional, no emotions, just the need to feel close to someone without the risk of getting hurt by caring.
It kinda sucks to be both self-aware and self-sabotaging simultaneously.
I can’t enjoy the destruction because I always feel guilty, knowing I should do better.
That same self-awareness is what actually keeps pushing me to choose my major in the thing I already naturally do—dissect the brain—mine and everyone else’s around me.
It’s a blessing, I guess, but more often than not, it’s just a huge pain in the ass, honestly.
I still don’t know what I want to do with a psychology major, though.
I don’t know why I’m lying; I do know, but I don’t really care to dissect the motive behind that unrealistic dream I’ve had for years right now.
I slowly lift the cover off me and climb out of bed, trying not to wake her.
My limbs are so sluggish, barely wanting to move, and I feel awful.
I just want to get back to my dorm and sleep the rest of this hangover off.
I start hunting for my clothes and find my jeans crumpled on a chair, my hoodie tossed on the floor, and my shoes nowhere to be found.
Thankfully, I spot my keys and wallet sitting on a dresser.
Great. One step closer to getting out of here and trying to forget this ever happened… I just need to find my damn shoes.
I pull on my pants and grab my wallet from the dresser.
I can’t stop myself from opening it up and looking at the picture of Isabel and me that I always keep there.
I let out a small sigh, knowing she would hate seeing me like this, knowing she’d probably be lecturing me right now if she could about my potential and my future and how much of a difference I can one day make in this world if I just got my shit together.
I close it and tuck it in the back pocket of my pants, trying not to get emotional while I’m standing in the middle of some random girl’s dorm room.
I pull on my hoodie, and when I stick my hands in the front pocket, I feel something.
I pull out the small bag of coke, and my brows scrunch together.
My mind flashes back to last night—the party and the lines I did in the bathroom with the same girl I apparently left with.
I shake my head and drop the bag on the bedside table.
Sorry, whatever your name is, but I can’t keep this on me. I don’t need to have that kind of temptation right now.
I mentally scold myself for being so stupid.
I keep telling myself I’m going to find better ways to cope with the grief and the guilt, but the way it claws at me when the silence hits is torture some days.
My self-control goes out the window, and I easily slip back into the habits I know will turn the thoughts and feelings off temporarily.
Once I find my shoes under the girl’s bed, I quickly get my ass out of there, stepping outside into the chilly, fog-covered morning. The world feels off balance as I walk, like everything keeps tilting. That’s probably just the hangover talking, though.
The campus is still quiet as I walk back to my dorm building.
I take a deep breath in and hold it before releasing it, trying to reset my mind, trying not to throw up.
This is supposed to be the year I get my act together.
The year I stop running from my demons. The year I finally face all of them, and stop letting them have control over me.
The thing is, I have no idea how to do that.
Being self-aware means I know what I’m doing wrong, but I don’t have any of the tools to do better.
Hell, maybe studying to become a therapist might give me some free tips.
I need something to fix me. I just need a sign, something to help me get on the right track.
I never used to be like this. I don’t have some crappy upbringing or early childhood trauma.
I have two amazing, loving parents who are still together and still extremely supportive of me, even when I constantly let them down lately.
I did well in school, got good grades, stayed out of trouble, was the picture-perfect student/friend/son/brother—well, maybe not that last one.
Everyone knows that’s where my self-destructive behavior comes from, from losing her.
I wasn’t able to save her, so my brain tries to convince me that I don’t deserve saving either.
But I’m trying…for her…only for her, definitely not myself.
If it were up to me, I’d just rot away, let the darkness take me under…
but I made my sister a promise after she died.
I told her I would make sure her life meant something, that what she went through wouldn’t be for nothing.
And I can’t do that if I’m coked out every weekend and always waking up hungover in random girls’ beds.
Something needs to change.
Once I make it to the building, every step closer to my dorm feels like a countdown to my sanity.
I open the door to my room and drop onto my bed, drained and feeling like shit. I lie there for a while, trying to muster up the energy to go shower and wash away the shame before rotting in bed for the rest of the day.
Eventually, I force myself back up and down the hall to the showers. I spend more time with my hands against the tile, and my head hanging low in self-pity, than actually showering.
Is this my rock bottom?
I step out, wrapping the towel around my waist and walking back to my room. As soon as I close the door behind me and sit on my bed, the door swings back open.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“With the guys from The Well,” Erik tells me, throwing his bag and helmet down, sitting on the floor, back against the bed, smiling.
Erik might look intimidating to some people…
and with the stories I know about him, he used to be.
But the guy sitting in front of me now—my roommate and best friend, who I met freshman year—is the softest and most caring, scary-looking teddy bear.
The ink on his arms tells a story of a life he left, and the Bible on his nightstand tells a story of a life he’s trying to build.
“Bible study at 8 in the morning? Is God even up that early?”
Erik laughs. “No, just got breakfast with some of the guys. But…” he says, raising his brows. “We have one coming up. You know…if you wanted to come.”
I deadpan at him. “Not my scene, man.”
“Why not?”
I tilt my head, knowing he knows why. “They just judge people like me. I’m not religious or anything like them. It’d be weird. I’d be the outcast.”
“Nah, man. They aren’t like that…I mean, look at me.
I’m definitely not the poster child for what people box Christians into.
A lot of the guys still party a little. We’re in college.
It’s not about being perfect or anything.
It’s just a good group of people to have as a community here and be able to lean on when you need.
You’d be surprised. I think you’d actually like it. ”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah…I doubt it.”
He gives me this challenging look. “What would it take to get you to come…just once?”
I stand up and walk over to my dresser, pulling out some clothes to throw on.
“I don’t know, man. My schedule’s pretty busy.”
“I’ve seen your schedule, Bash. I think you could spare a night of partying for God.”
I pull my T-shirt over my head and glare at him. “I have a life outside of partying.”
He just stares at me, not saying anything, knowing I’m full of crap.
I let out a long, aggravated sigh. “Fine, I’ll go—”
“Really?”
“Once…and then you have to stop always asking me.”
Erik looks at me in surprise and raises his brows. “Deal.”