Rayn, Phil and Annie all helped me move my stuff back into my mom's and Phil dropped off the keys and money off at the diner. I'd probably left a few things behind, but I guess it didn't matter.
I can't really say I wanna be back at my mom's much more than I want to stay at the apartment, but I s'pose it's better than a place that was exclusively mine and Kyle's. It hurts every time I think about how quickly the guy moved on, and fills me with an overwhelming sense of self-hate when I realise I can't fucking move on.
It doesn't really matter how many times the others all remind me that they're there for me - they're not the ones I need or particularly want. I can't imagine Phil being around is doing much for my chances of getting back with Kyle either.
Me, Rayn and Annie go out on regular drug binges, and Phil stays at mom's to wait for me to come staggering back to let me in and try to berate me for handling things the same old way. When I'm about as sober as I'll get, he tries to tell me that there are better ways of coping with this shit, but I just tell him to fuck off with his ‘rehab was the best thing ever' shit. I don't care. People who go through rehab want to change how they are. I don't.
I stopped my methadone treatment and therapy, using the money instead to fund my newly spiralling drug habit. I know it's breaking mom's heart and I guess Phil probably isn't taking it too easy either, but even though sometimes when I'm stealing out of mom's bank account or selling on my music gear to pay for it all I pause to wonder if I should listen to Phil and try to find a better way of dealing with it, I don't have the will power to stop myself. I don't want to get better, I want to destroy myself, and have a fucking good time while I'm at it.
I still work at the bar, of course, and I still go to the studio sessions, but they just don't cover the costs.
Phil helps me up the stairs, laying me down on my side in the bed and putting the cover over me. I stare blankly at him, watching as he sits down on the mattress mom put on the floor for him, since I refused to share my bed with him. He leans on the bed, playing with my hair, enjoying it while he knows I'm too wasted to slap his hand away.
I guess I fell asleep at some point, ‘cause the next thing I know about is Phil eating toast, and some idiot opened the curtains. I squint into the light for a second before burying my head under the comforter, not quite willing to have to face anyone or anything just yet.
"Get your ass in the shower. You've gotta be in the studio in a couple of hours," he says through a mouthful. I whine, sinking further under the comforter, determined not to move. I ball up when he rips the covers back, the comfortable warm being replaced by what feels like a blast of icy air.
"Noooo," I protest in a mumble, reaching for the comforter, but he's already folded it up and put it on the other side of the room.
"C'mon," he insists, pulling me up off the bed.
"No," I moan, refusing to cooperate as he drags me into the bathroom and starts undressing me. I lay down on the floor, crossing my legs and arms so he can't get me out of my clothes. He sighs, frustrated.
"Damien, just work with me here for once. Please?" I shake my head, not caring if I'm acting like a stroppy little kid. I just want to sleep and not have to wake up. Does he not get that or something?
It takes him maybe twenty minutes to finally get me into the shower and he takes it as progress, even though I sit there sulking and glaring at him. He washes himself quickly before carefully cleaning me up, making sure he doesn't pull open any cuts. His efforts on that front are kinda useless though, ‘cause the moment he looks away, I start picking at them, staining the water red.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he mutters, rinsing me off and pulling me out of the bath.
After another fight, he's managed to get me dressed again and into the car, where I curl up on the back seat, ignoring his instruction to put a seat belt on. His patience is already worn so thin that he just drives me to the studio and leaves me with Rayn. "Good luck getting him to do anything," Phil says irritably, walking off into town.
Rayn pulls a joint out of his pocket and bribes me to get out of the car with it. If Phil bribed me with drugs too, maybe he'd get somewhere with getting me to do stuff.