First time in my life,he thought, the realization hitting him along with another wave of nausea.
He’d watched his father chase oblivion for years.In bottles, pills, whatever would numb the constant hunger for something bigger.And Vic had sworn he’d never go there.He’d promised himself, over and over, that he would be different.Better.Stronger.
Yet here I am.Blackout drunk on his grandmother’s bathroom floor because a woman he’d known for around a week was marrying someone else.
He lurched towards the toilet, hovering over it just in time to spew out the contents of his stomach.The stench was abhorrent, the taste even worse.
Pathetic.
Vic leaned his forehead against the cool mirror, eyes squeezed shut as the room continued to spin slowly around him.He could still hear Harper’s voice in his head, soft and apologetic, the words looping like a broken record.
“This was never supposed to be anything serious.”
He’d known that.God, he’d told himself the same thing every single time.Casual.Easy exits.No strings.No expectations.No one getting close enough to see the mess underneath.
But for those five days, it had felt different.
Fun without the usual hollowness afterward.Laughter that didn’t feel forced or performative.Someone who saw him as more than just the drummer who could hold down a groove.Harper had looked at him like he was interesting.Like he was enough.For a few short days, he’d let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something real.
And then it was gone.
Just like that.
He slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the cold tile floor, head buried in his hands.The shame burned hotter than the hangover, hotter than the whiskey still sloshing in his gut.It clawed at him, vicious and unrelenting.He had broken his own rule—the one he’d clung to since he was a kid watching Rosie destroy everything he touched, including himself.
Don’t become him.
Vic stayed there for what felt like hours, the sky outside the small frosted window gradually lightening from black to deep purple to pale gray.The pounding in his head slowly eased, but the shame only grew sharper with every passing minute.
Finally, when the first hints of dawn crept through the window, he dragged himself up on unsteady legs.He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it pulling a harsh gasp from his throat.He stared at the stranger in the mirror again—the bloodshot eyes, the pallor, the defeated slump of his shoulders.
“Enough,” he whispered to his reflection, voice raw and cracked.“This stops now.”
***
His phone was dead.
Vic stared at the black screen for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a physical thing.He shuffled into his old bedroom, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet in the familiar way they always had.The room smelled like old wood and faint laundry detergent, the same smells that had once meant safety.Now they just felt like another reminder of how far he’d fallen.
He plugged the phone into the charger on his nightstand and sank onto the edge of the narrow twin bed, elbows braced on his knees while he waited for it to boot up.The screen finally flickered to life, the bright glow cutting through the dim morning light like an accusation.
Notifications flooded in.
Three missed calls from Grams.
One from Meg.
A knot of guilt twisted so violently in his gut that he almost threw up again.He pressed the heel of his hand against his stomach, breathing through the wave of nausea.He opened the missed calls first.Grams had left a voicemail at 11:47 p.m.
He hit Play, and her voice filled the quiet room, warm, worried, and steady as ever.
“Victor, honey, it’s nearly midnight.Just let me know you’re okay when you get in.Love you.”
Vic closed his eyes, shame burning like acid up his throat.She must not have known he was on the back porch the whole time.He’d walked around the side of the house instead of coming through the front, not wanting to face her.Not wanting to explain what had happened when he wasn’t even certain of it himself.The thought of her sitting up waiting, checking the clock, worrying about him...it made the guilt feel like a living thing inside his chest.
He rubbed a hand roughly over his face, the stubble scraping against his palm.The shame burned hotter than the pounding headache behind his eyes.Then he tapped on Meg’s name.
She hadn’t left a voicemail, but she had sent a text twenty minutes ago.
