Frances sighed. He wasn’t sure how he got from opening up the bottle of whiskey to drinking about a third of it but there it was.
He checked the level again, just to be sure. Yup, a third gone. His mouth felt dry like a desert and it had the most disgusting feel to it. Also, his head ached. He had a horrible night with his mother; she was screaming at him about his grades and he wanted something to numb him a little. And then Faron tried to stop the fighting and was told to “mind your own business, little bitch” by their mother. Yeah, that would do it.
After the Thanksgiving dinner where Alexa witnessed his family at its worse, things seemed to go downhill. It didn’t seem as though his mother cared about restraining herself, anymore. Almost every night, she’d lashed out at Frances, after Lynda had gone home.
Frances asked Faron to start sleeping over at friends’ houses so she didn’t have to witness the worst of it. Faron agreed but with tears in her eyes; she loved her brother but couldn’t bear to watch him being ripped to pieces by their mother.
Frances didn’t care. At least, that was what he told himself. His mother was bitter because his father left her when she was pregnant with him. At least, that’s what he picked up after years of overhearing whispered conversations and inferences from relatives. He’d never asked her; that topic was forbidden, along with anything else about his father.
Frances didn’t even know who his father was. He had no picture, no letters, nothing of any substance or verification. He didn’t even have his birth certificate. When he looked in the mirror, he could see parts of him that weren’t his mother. His eyes weren’t her colour and his facial features weren’t hers, either. He figured that she saw his father in his face every time she looked at him. That would explain why she attacked him and left Faron alone. Frances was grateful for small favours.
Frances had taken to drinking three fingers of alcohol a night. He found it helped him sleep better and it blurred his memory of the evening. He still did his homework and he still went to school every day. He woke up and made sure to take a shower and brush his teeth well. He didn’t want any of his friends to smell even a hint of alcohol on him.
It was easy to get a bottle of alcohol as his mother had a full bar of almost every kind of hard liquor there was. She also had several spare bottles stored beneath the bar, in a cabinet. Frances simply chose his alcohol and pilfered a bottle to bring up to his room.
If he poured himself three fingers of alcohol, a full bottle would last him for a while. He was careful to only allow himself that amount every night. He wasn’t going to become a slave to the bottle; not him. He was smarter than that. Even if, he had to admit, he’d worked up to four fingers of alcohol now to calm his nerves and numb his heart.
This time around, though, he’d overindulged. Instead of drinking just his usual amount, he’d apparently overdone it. He knew why, too. Alexa had called him last night and was burbling with happiness over her date with Logan. That combined with his mother’s rant on how disappointing he’d turned out and her lashing out at Faron when she’d come to her brother’s defense was all enough for him to go upstairs, shut his door, and get the bottle of whiskey out from its hiding place.
He remembered twisting off the cap with a vicious flick of his fingers and pouring the whiskey down his throat, straight from the bottle. He didn’t stop drinking until he had to; he gasped for breath and had put the bottle down. After taking a deep breath, he once again raised the bottle and drank until his eyes blurred and his hands shook.
After that, he took a few more sips until he felt the alcohol kick in. He put the cap back on, shoved the bottle back into its hiding place and stumbled to his bed, falling on top of the covers. He closed his eyes and before he knew it, was fast asleep.
Now, in the morning, he laid on top of his covers, feeling like death warmed over. He was pathetically grateful that the shades were drawn. He wasn’t sure he could go to school. He felt sick and knew he needed to drink plenty of water throughout the day. He’d learned his lesson the first time around when he hadn’t and his reward was a pounding headache that didn’t go away until he drank a few glasses of water. He decided he’d stay home and take care of himself.
He looked at the one-third empty bottle again and shook his head. He needed to get a grip on himself. Four fingers of alcohol a night was one thing. Binge drinking was a whole different beast altogether.
Frances called in sick, then staggered to the bathroom to drink down some water and pee. He stared at himself in the mirror for some time, studying his haunted eyes and downturned mouth. He turned away, resisting the urge to smash the mirror to pieces. He hoped Alexa didn’t see what he saw in there. He felt like he was half alive.
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