Page 247 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“Chase,” I warn without looking back at him, eyes locked on Simone. “Hurry up and get out of here before you see something you don’t wanna see.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Who told you I didn’t enjoy a good show every now and then?”

I turn, focusing my glare on him now.

He just raises his hands, laughing. “Fine, fine. I’m going to Tank’s room to shower. Put a sock on the door if you plan on being more than a minute man this morning.”

My middle finger stays up this time until he’s fully out of the room.

When I turn back to Simone, she’s already smiling and shaking her head no.

“No, no, no. You asked for it, pretty girl. I’m just here to deliver punishment.”

* * *

Eventually, we get up after spending way too much time in bed together—brushing our teeth side by side in the bathroom, Simone grabbing one of my college T-shirts to throw on, and both of us heading downstairs together so I can make her some breakfast. Normal things. Domestic things that feel dangerous because I want them too much.

I’m fine…until I’m not. Until the anxiety and panic start tocreep in about today. Abouthimbeing here.

It’s like a switch flips in my brain, telling me danger is coming and there’s only one way to stop the damage.

I’ve been fighting it for days. Hell, I’ve been fighting this for months. It physically hurts to crave something this badly.

Every time I grab something from the fridge or pantry…it’s all I see. My mouth goes dry, and then my skin starts crawling with the need. It’s like fighting off the worst sickness you’ve ever had while you stare at the cure that’s sitting right in front of your face.

It’s all too much. It feels like I can’t function today, like I’m scared of being in my own mind. I feel desperate for something that will help the way my body is tensing up, the way my heart is pounding like I’m running a marathon, the way I feel like I’m going crazy inside my own head. I can’t rationalize anything outside of wanting it to stop.

I wish I could tell you I hated myself for making the decision before even going through with it, but I don’t. It feels like relief just telling my brain I’ll give it what it wants. I’ll worry about the rest tomorrow. This is a one-time thing, this is different, this is temporary. I just—I just fucking need it right now, and nothing else is going to help.

It doesn’t even feel like a choice anymore. And I know there’s no going back.

Once we’re back in my room, I wait to hear Simone turn the shower on before I head back downstairs.

I don’t waste time. I don’t want anyone to see this. I just want it, and I want my head to stop yelling.

I take the bottle and drink straight from it, fast and desperate, like I’m racing against the clock. The burn hits my throat, my chest, my stomach—it’s euphoric in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Like coming home.

The home is beautiful. The front door is grand. The entire way is gorgeous, and the kitchen is magnificent—filled to the brim with liquid drugs.

Sadly, the rest of the house is a complete disaster—it’s full of shame, and feels achingly familiar.

I thought I would have more time to enjoy the good part of this. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

So I drink more—drown out the shame, drown out the regret, drown out the guilt.

You can’t hate yourself if you don’t even know who you are.

I finish as much as I can stomach before walking over to the sink and trying to rinse out my mouth. I grab an energy drink from the fridge on the way back upstairs, cracking it open and swishing some in my mouth, hoping it’ll mask some of the smell.

Back in the room, I try to avoid Simone as she steps out of the bathroom in just a towel.

All I want to do is rip that thing off her and pull her close to me, but I need to focus on getting into that bathroom right now. I can’t be anywhere near her like this.

I shower like it’ll wash away what I did. I brush my teeth four times and scrub my tongue until it’s raw. I rinse with half the bottle of mouthwash. And I spray cologne into my shirt, hair, and neck like it’ll cover up the smell of failing.

Looking in the mirror, all I see is a coward.