Against the Tide

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Authors: Nikki Groom
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the…? I grab the back of her head roughly and yank her neck back. I can just about make out her features. It’s not her. It’s not ‘the’ girl. ‘My’ girl.
    “Get the fuck off me,” I roar, reacting without thinking. “You cheap fucking whore, get out,” I yell at her.
    “You’re in my flat, arsehole,” she spits, jumping off the bed and standing over me in nothing but a pair of heels. “You were happy enough to share my lines of coke, even sucked it off my tits,” she informs me, pushing her chest out as if it would remind me of my crime. “If you’re going to be a prick, you can get the fuck out of MY apartment, and you can leave my Jack, too.” She snatches the bottle out of my hand and I’m too wasted to stop her. I fumble with my jeans, my head spinning from the craziness that has become my life. I don’t remember half of this evening, in fact I don’t remember much of the last month, and I don’t want to. That’s the best way. The only way I can deal with each day. I stagger to the bedroom door and look back at her seething glare. “Go on, get out, you fucking useless piece of shit. Good luck finding anyone else to suck that limp dick of yours.” She follows me out to make sure I leave, and slams the door behind me making my brain rattle around in my head.
    Too many drugs, Finn. Far too many drugs.
    I try to focus on the stairs down to the outside door, but I sway and grab on to the hand rail. I fall back against the cold wall, sliding down until my arse meets the stone floor where I close my eyes and dream of the girl, my girl, before I pass out.
    I’m a selfish, useless bastard, and I don’t deserve for anyone to give me the time of day. I’ve spent nearly a month in some kind of alcohol or chemical induced state. To begin with I thought it helped me to block everything out, but now I’m not so sure. Lizzie’s funeral just about killed me. It killed me to see her disappear behind that curtain, in a box that I knew was going to be incinerated until all that is left of my beautiful, bubbly little sister, is ashes. A fine dust that is nothing but powder capable of being blown away by the wind forever. It tortured me to see my mum break down in her wheelchair, sobs that shook her tiny frail body so hard I thought she was going to shatter in to a million tiny irreparable pieces. A huge piece of me disappeared with Lizzie that day. A piece that’s too big to patch over, leaving me with a hollow void.
    I can’t deal with the most basic of tasks. I need a haircut. I need to shave. But I can’t be bothered and that’s basically what it comes down to. My mum’s condition has deteriorated and being the craptastic son that I am, I can’t even bear to visit her. Lizzie looked like her, and before she was sick, people would mistake them for sisters. My mum who is forty nine, and used to be mistaken for a twenty nine year old, now looks closer to seventy.
    Sobriety is starting to creep back in through every pore and I can’t handle it. I don’t want to handle it. I reach blindly for the bottle of vodka that was on the bedside table, knocking over a glass and something else in my attempt to find it. I open my eyes slowly, unsure if it’s day or night. There’s a crack in the curtain and sunlight streams through, stabbing at my pupils. Daytime. I look around for a bottle. I don’t care if it’s vodka or cider. I would drink bleach if it helped take this feeling away. Anything but facing reality. In fact, if it just took me away from the world entirely that would make me very happy.
    “Looking for this?” A voice comes from the chair in the corner of the room. I squint, trying to make out the person sitting there, taunting me by waving a half full bottle of something back and forth.
    “Harley?” I croak.
    “Nope.”
    I squint even more and make out that it’s Kyle. “What do you want?” I grumble, struggling to form my words properly as my tongue sticks to the roof of my

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