Tw: Death, Angst, Alcoholism, Sad. This Is Just Sad Im Sorry

tw: death, angst, alcoholism, sad. this is just sad im sorry

“I’m sorry, son,” Neil says, his voice softer and kinder than Billy’s ever heard.

He’s numb. He can’t actually believe it. Nothing feels real. Billy can’t be sure he’s actually sitting on the couch, can’t be sure Susan’s hiding in the kitchen, can’t be sure Max is locked away in her room. Can’t fathom that he’s 2,000 miles away from home.

“Her funeral is next Saturday. We can try to make it,” Neil continues, “But if we can’t, your aunt said she would send you some of her ashes.”

Billy’s frozen. The last time he ever saw her replaying in his mind.

Rosemary stood at the door, a suitcase packed by her feet and six year old Billy was curious why she hadn’t packed him one.

“I promise,” she ran her fingers through his hair, “I’ll come get you. I have to leave now but I’ll be back in two days and you can come live with me and Auntie Diane.”

He was sobbing, angry and seething.

“No, Momma,” he blubbered, “Don’t go!”

Rosemary heaved a big sigh. It was now or never. She had to time this right or Neil would catch her leaving.

“Baby,” she cooed, squeezing Billy close to her, “I’m coming back for you. Two days. You can wait for me.”

She kissed his cheeks, five to each one when Billy notices his mom is crying too. He clings onto her shirt so tightly, she has to forcefully pull his fingers away. She squeezes his little fists in her own, eyes trained on his wet, blue ones.

“Two days, baby.”

Rosemary opens the door, runs to Auntie Diane’s car and Billy runs out after her. He’s screaming for her to stop but she doesn’t. Auntie Diane drives away with Rosemary hanging out the window, “Two days!”

Neil finds him on the lawn not ten minutes later, crying hysterically. He picks up his son, carries him inside and sets him on the couch. Neil’s like a tornado afterwards, storming to the master bedroom and between his sobs, Billy can hear drawers slamming. Then Neil’s angry voice.

“That cunt!” he growls, “That worthless fucking whore.”

Billy curls up in a ball on the living room carpet, hiccuping while he stares at a bloody stain on the floor. He remembers how it was made, his mom flinging a plate at his dad. Remembers how it sliced Neil’s hand open when he tried to dodge it. Remembers how he tried to help his mom scrub it the next day, how it wouldn’t lighten and with time, turned into a deep reddish brown. Billy scratches at his arms as he cries, furniture crashing in the master bedroom.

Two days came and went, without Rosemary returning. Summer break. Neil took the week of work to watch Billy. He kept looking out the windows, his face twisted in anger. Billy called his Auntie Diane’s number ten times a day. No answer.

It’s a week later when he finally gets an answer. He’s hiding in the kitchen cabinet. Cries to his momma. Tells her he misses her. She says she’s coming to get him soon.

She never came back. Billy never knew why. Why she couldn’t take him.

“How?” his voice is shaky, unsure of itself. Sounds far away in his ears.

“She had cancer. Liver,” Neil’s voice is gruff again. He thinks about the bottles of vodka she used to hide around the house. Billy’s chest feels like it’s splitting open. He has to get out of this house, as soon as possible.

He stands, pushes passed Neil and for the first time in eleven years, Neil lets him leave without a single question. Billy finds himself at a liquor store, his fingers shake as he grabs the plastic bottle. His eyes scan over the the red accented label. The same label he used to find in the toilet tank when he was a kid.

The quarry is the best place to drink alone. He sits on the dirt in front of his car, cracks open the bottle of Popov and lifts it to the sky.

“To you, momma,” he chokes out.

Billy swallows back the fiery liquid, understands why she loved it so much while it burns down his throat and spreads a comfortable heat in his chest.

“I hated you,” he hopes she can hear him, hopes that somehow she can watch over him. He talked to her a lot, in his head, out loud when he was alone. Now he has a weird sense of comfort, like she’s here now. “For a long time. I never understood why you couldn’t just take me with you. I would’ve rather took care of you than deal with him.”

He chokes out a sob, furiously rubbing his fists against his eyeballs.

“God,” he laughs through the tears, a maniacal laugh, “You fucking bitch! What a fucking joke.”

Another swig of the cheapest vodka known to man. Billy wants to get so drunk, so shitfaced and wrap his Camaro around a tree. Wants to be reunited with his mom. Life’s a sick fucking joke. He’s freshly eighteen. His mom should be alive, should be around. It’s not fucking fair.

“Did you ever try?” he asks, “Did you ever want me? I remember that story you used to tell me, about when I was born. About how I opened my eyes and looked up at you and you said you finally felt whole.”

Billy sobs again, “Did you feel empty when you left? Did you hate yourself for not taking me?”

The clouds move slowly as he gazes up, tries not to think about how possibly he’s just talking to himself and she can’t actually hear him. That she’s just gone and there’s nothing and that’s it. You die and you’re dead and gone, just memories. Billy suddenly clutches at his necklace, brings it to his lips and kisses it.

“I love you,” he blubbers out, “Fuck, I love you.”

“Remember when you would take me surfing?” he hiccups, “Dad made me stop. Haven’t done it since the last time you took me.”

He’s silent for a while, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. It’s all so fucking surreal. He always wondered if it’d be easier if she was dead. But he’s never felt so god damn hopeless in his life.

He lifts the bottle of Popov again, laughing again.

“Got your favorite,” he sniffles, “I get it, a little bit. Why you ran off, why you drank so much. He would’ve killed you. I think I remind him of you. I think that’s why he fucking hates me so much. A reminder of what he lost.”

Billy sighs, takes another plentiful swig and sinks down on his back.

“Wonder why he doesn’t just kill me,” he mumbles, “Maybe he thinks he can just push me to do it my fucking self.”

He’s silent again, can hear the frogs and crickets. The air is cool, brings chills to his spine but that’s something Popov can solve. He tries to take another swig lying down but chokes on it, coughs up the harsh alcohol and sits up to catch his breath. Thinks about if he gets pulled over on the way home, how he’ll reek of vodka. Like his mom used to.

“I’ve thought about it, ya know. After you left, kinda thought it every day,” he rubs his nose with his palm, smearing snot over his skin. “It’s too easy. I don’t know. Maybe I’m fucking stupid, but maybe I can do something with my life. Don’t know what I’m good at, but there’s gotta be something, right? Maybe pottery, like you did. I never tried.”

Another swig of the cheap booze, he’s feeling it. Billy’s drunk. Gets why his mom was so dependent on it. A short term solution for life long pain.

“I think he loved you,” he speaks again, “Susan is a lot like you. She’s got a really fucking annoying kid and she’s not as perfect as you, but he seemed happier. He buys her things a lot.”

He laughs, “Get this. He bought her diamond earrings for Christmas. Got Max a stereo for his room. Guess what he got me? A fucking copy of Penthouse.”

Billy snorts then, “I’m gay, mom. I think he knows it too, that’s why he got me a fucking skin mag.”

When the realization hits that he’s just to come out to his dead mom, Billy breaks out into a fit of laughter. He’s giddy. He’s never told a soul, funny that the one he’s told isn’t on this plane of existence. He slaps his knee, body curling up with the laughs.

“I’m fucking gay!” he screams out into the empty quarry, falling into his back while his giggling subsides and shifts to violent sobs.

He hears the voice before he sees the dark figure standing in front of him.

“Are you okay?”

Steve fucking Harrington. His ill fitting jeans, polo and Member’s Only jacket. Billy’s eyes meet his and then he’s a barrel of laughs again. What are the odds that as he’s coming out to his deceased mom, the boy that’s made these feelings more of a reality comes walking up. God’s a funny son of a bitch if he exists.

It’s the alcohol that fuels Billy’s next move.

Another big, belly laugh, “Am I okay? My fucking mom’s dead!”

Steve’s face falls, “Oh… god, I’m so sorry.”

Billy smiles, cheekily up at the brunette. Remembers smashing a plate over his head. Like mother like son. Billy laughs again, unscrewing the red cap from the plastic bottle.

“Never felt closer to her,” Billy insists, raising the bottle before knocking back another gulp. “The hell are you doing out here, amigo?”

Steve sighs, “Come here to clear my head. You sure you’re okay?”

Billy shoves the bottle towards Steve, “Have some! For my sweet, beautiful mother. She was a fiend for this stuff.”

The brunette sits next to him, takes the bottle and knocks back a swig. His handsome face cringes with it. He hands it back and tilts his head as he looks at Billy.

“I’m really sorry. That sucks.”

Billy giggles, “Haven’t seen her since I was six! Her funeral is next Saturday. Wonder if I should skip it. She didn’t show up when she said she would.” He sighs, looks up at the sky, “Two days, right?”

Steve is silent, lets Billy get out whatever he needs to. Pats his knee reassuringly.

“I fucking miss her, man,” Billy admits, “I… fuck!”

He grabs onto his pack of smokes, pulls one out and lights it, his fingers trembling.

“Yeah… life’s… weird like that, it has to throw everything at you at once,” Steve sighs, “See if you got what it takes.”

“I don’t think I do,” Billy admits, shoving the box of Marlboros against Steve’s chest.

Steve frowns, accepts the cigarette and hands the box back to Billy, “You seem tough enough to handle it.”

Billy breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably and ducking his head between his knees. Steve doesn’t know what to do. This guy beat him blue and bloody a couple months ago. Now he’s crying so hard Steve thinks he might puke. His arms circle around Billy before he can really think about it, clutching onto him. The blonde doesn’t return the embrace, Steve awkwardly rests his cheek on Billy’s shoulder and rubs soothing circles against his back. But after a while, Billy drops his cigarette, turns his body and shoves his face in Steve’s neck while he wraps his arms around his middle. The sobs only seem to get harder the tighter they hug.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Steve mumbles because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Billy’s getting snot and spit all over Steve’s neck but it seems like the guy really needed a hug so Steve just holds him closer.