We don’t say another word for the rest of the drive to my house.
***
I may be a reckless person, but all the choices I’ve made in my own self-destruction have been just that: choices. Maybe the path that led me to those choices was out of my control most of the time, but in the end, the decisions have always been mine.
I’ve been clean and sober for two years, and I chose to do that so I could be a good father to Katie. And as I sit here in bed with a bottle of vodka next to a bottle of pills, I choose to go back to my old way of dealing with life.
Sipping the clear, burning liquid while lying in the middle of my bed, my thoughts drift to Renee. I’m pretty sure she’s in the ground now, too. Thanks to me. Although her death was also ruled to be an unfortunate accident, it’s still my fault that she was with me in the car that night. She died trying to be more than she was. She was nothing but a sex toy to me, and an unfortunate victim of my inability to form meaningful relationships with people. I didn’t know her well enough to miss her, but I do feel bad that she lost her life. She wanted more than I could give her, even though I’m always honest with the women I fuck. They know there will be no love, no commitment, and no care. There will be fun and there will be fucking. Nothing more. Yet women always seem to think they will get more, and that they might be the one to change me.
I pop a pill and wash it down with more vodka.
A snake is always a snake. A leopard doesn’t change its spots.
Vandal
I’m ripped out of my deep, numbing sleep by someone banging on the front door and ringing the doorbell. Non-fucking-stop. It’s obvious after ten minutes of banging that they aren’t going away, so I stumble down the hall, holding my sore ribs. I’m wearing nothing but sweatpants, and step over garbage, empty bottles, and strewn mail on my way.
I swing open the door and Evie is standing there, holding a bunch of grocery bags.
“What the fuck do you want?” I spew at her.
She pushes past me and plops the bags on my cluttered counter, sending a few empty vodka bottles to the floor.
“You’ve missed the last five practices,” she says, looking around in disgust. “No one has seen you in two weeks.”
I go to the fridge, take out a beer, crack it open, and take a big gulp. “What are you? The fucking band manager now?”
She starts to throw the dirty dishes on the counter into the sink, and then goes after the refrigerator, dragging the garbage can over so she can dump old, rotting food into it.
“This place is disgusting, Vandal.”
“No shit. Ask me if I care. Why the fuck are you here?”
“I came to check on you, and bring you some food. And clean, since you apparently need all of the above.” She looks me up and down and pokes my stomach. “You look thin.”
She completely takes over my kitchen like a tornado, putting groceries in the fridge, rifling through my cabinets, and throwing garbage away.