High ceilings. Abstract art worth millions, dining tables that go on for miles, dishonest niceties, and residents of a single house that accidentally come across one another.

I grew up alone in a house full of people. Most of my earlier memories are in wide rooms that lack a purpose, with a book or toy in hand to keep me occupied, my hair combed to the side, dressed in shorts and a vest—pretty like a carved doll from the nineteenth century. It’s remarkable how cold these images are. The chill that runs down my spine every time my mind travels back to these sights makes me freeze every time: how I become that lonely little boy every time I am home alone, every time I have apple juice, every time an acquaintance walks by without saying a hello.

I’ve been, and always will be, a character. I am for people to perceive. As a kid, I put my blood into making myself known to my parents. Maybe then I’d have a mother chattering on about her son to the ever-rotating list of guests, offering her safety in warm hugs. A happy father, one who nagged us onto a table for dinner and pried into our privacy.

I eventually understood that perfecting another language and a new oil painting may be worthy of a glance, though never much more. But drug inhibition at fifteen is an excellent call for attention, one that would require a hands-on parenting approach. Hands-on. Literally.

I was high when my parents died. I was drunk when my niece was born. I was smoking whatever my fingers could touch every time I wrote a song. I’ve ruined my life before it began, and I continue to make sure it goes wrong every day. If I’m already at rock bottom, there is nothing to fear. There are no stakes.

It wasn’t different that night; the routine was already established. New Year’s is as good an excuse as any to lose yourself in a crowd of twenty-something year-olds with trust funds, attempting to dance after their umpteenth shot. And, like every year since high school, I was at some hotel in someone’s penthouse, seriously attempting to out-ratio my alcohol-to-blood count.

It didn’t matter that I was six months clean when I decided to go to that rave, under the obviously distorted pretense that I would stay sober through the night. We were all there to get off our faces with the false hope that there wouldn’t be an article coming out the very next day about the future heirs of two G20 countries, countless lingerie models, and fallen musicians- hello- snorting cocaine off of nasty surfaces.

I don’t recall what exactly I would’ve been doing at these parties, and this one was no different. From one room to another, a constant stream of alcohol miraculously made its way to my eager hands, whether I was dancing while crying or doing something just as contradictory.

It was, at a guess, around 2 a.m., with loud music blaring, the kind you feel more than hear; it felt like I was a pebble in the Pacific, and for a moment, I was almost running on the collective agenda to drink, drink, drink without much of a need for voluntary motivation.

I don’t remember the last time someone took a drink out of my hand. If anything, drinks are usually pushed into my palm. So it was almost unnerving when a stranger decided that I'd had enough.

I don’t really understand why she decided she must intervene, but a woman suddenly approached me. At a glance, she looked young—around 25, slim, her forehead high, and her nose hooked. But once you look beyond the red lipstick and the thick earrings, you see the faint smile lines and the scattered grays at the front of her scalp.

I know now that she isn’t taller than I am, but at the moment, it seemed like her shoulders were miles over my head. It was obvious, even to me, that she’s someone with the kind of status you can only get with an unrelenting sense of self-confidence. She looked like she'd been at the party for a while; her make-up was smudged, and her feet were bare.

She surrounded me the way a blanket rests over your shoulders; it took me a moment to understand that she was coaxing the glass from my loose grip, and it was relieving that I wouldn’t have to entertain a come-on.

I let her drive me away from the crowd, unbothered and unquestioning, our shoulders constantly bumping with people going nowhere. It was stupid to go wherever she pleases to push me in the direction of, but at the time I would’ve been equally glad if she was an axe murderer or a good Samaritan.

I don’t remember ever saying anything at all to her, and other than asking if there was anyone here with me, I don’t remember her saying anything either.

She led me into an elevator, and I was willing to lean back and let my head go quiet.

We were soon in the lobby. She had a hand on my shoulder, balancing my gate and guiding me to a sofa by the front desk. I found myself sitting alone, my head resting on a throw pillow, and lulled to the side.

She eventually came back after talking to the receptionist for what felt like five hours but was probably five minutes, and with the help of a scrawny boy, part of the staff according to his uniform, she helped me to a car waiting for us outside the hotel. I settled in the backseat after some serious maneuvering. A drunk middle-aged man is, after all, a three-person effort. I was half-waiting for her to come through the other door, but the car drove away and she disappeared back inside.

I’ve reached what people might think of as ‘rock bottom’ in my life a multitude of times, and, pardon my attempt at dramatism, I’m inclined to think of my life as a whole as a big, fat low point. But that night easily made the top ten, the high waning off as the car moved forward, the realization of what I'd just done settling in.

It felt like punishment—passing by flickering lamp posts,a sort of dizziness building behind my temple. It’s pathetic, really. I think the driver could tell I was wallowing in self-pity—and a couple bodily fluids I can’t seem to tell apart—because he kept opening and closing his mouth as if trying to come up with something to say but then thinking better of it. I was too exhausted and drunk to respond to his timidity, so I just readjusted my position and tried to hold back the tears for the entire 30-minute ride.

I managed to stumble through and up to my apartment. It’s always eerily serene, unaware of the exact opposite nature of its inhabitant. I’ve always lived in houses that were never homes, always looking too-something, quaint, modern, or whatever other adjective that elicits thoughts of unnatural organization or aesthetic.

There was an attempt to shower, but as soon as the torturous endeavor of getting my trousers off was over, I decided that bed was the divine answer, though sleep was hours away, and I spent the night tossing and turning half-awake. It felt like all the lights in New York were shining straight into my eyes.

I dreamt of my mother.

I woke up knowing I’d done something terribly wrong.

It hit me like a truck in the form of the consequences of my own actions. I woke up with a paralyzing headache; it felt like the Empire State had collapsed on my skull.

I couldn’t leave my bed if I tried, and I definitely wasn’t about to try.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

It was withdrawal wrapped in a hangover with a large serving of existential dread.

I was in bed with my regret for a period of time I can’t name, and it would be a depressing number if I knew.

I’ve definitely survived a lot worse. One thing about addiction is that it defies the idea of what a sensible person would think is the limit. I’ve felt death many times, convinced I would soon take my last breath, and yet, somehow, I’ve recovered every time. Well, I say recovered. I’ve not decided if I would classify my surprise survival thus far as severely lucky or comically unlucky.

There was eventually a harsh knock on my door. It made me realize that my phone has been uncharacteristically silent. Which made me realize that my phone was not anywhere near me.

The knocking continued, and Andy started shouting for me. I felt the urge to either kill myself, kill him, or both. But even pushing the covers aside sounded like hell, so I did my best to ignore him.

The knocking stopped. Even through all the fog, I knew he went to get his key. Despite the possibility—the probability—of my rotting corpse in here, he wouldn’t break the door down. I felt an odd mixture of offense and pride.

He came running into my room once he managed to systemically get the door unlocked. With a key. In the face of death. Good God.

"Sully!" His voice reverberated and echoed inside my skull, like a tennis ball being passed to and from the walls of my head.

"Shut the fuck up," I was able to sound both absolutely dead and insanely angry all at once.

He sat at the edge of the bed. He knew I wasn’t angry at him. He knew he was the one person I would forever depend on. He knew that I shouted abuse at him because I knew he'd never leave, and he knew I needed to let it out.

For Andy and me, it’s complicated. I fucked shit up with him more times than anyone would bear. More times than he should bear. At times, I wish he had taken my advice when we were in college and just got himself away from this massive wreck of a human. He only nodded and held me then; he’ll do the same now.

"Oh, Sul," he always called me that. I always hated it. Except how I always loved it.

His sympathy won’t last much longer. He was questioning and angry, and I did my best not to shout at all. Why did you do this? What were you thinking? Are you losing it? You’ve lost it. I can’t believe you right now. Can you believe this? It was never helpful to hear the ongoing Voice in Your Head out loud. Especially not from your best friend.

On a whim, in the middle of his monologue, I found myself suddenly standing face-to-face with him, nose up against his freckled nose.

"If you don’t shut the actual fuck up right now, Andy," I enunciated every single syllable through my teeth, "I will fucking break your nose. Do you understand?"

He stared at me in, I want to say, disbelief in my everlasting attempt to make those memories easier to bear, but really it was heartbreak and disappointment. He shook his head and left, softly closing the heavy door after him.

I felt like I just ran a marathon dry and collapsed onto the bed despite myself. I suddenly felt cold.

He was back minutes later with a glass of water shoved into my hand after I sat up drenched in guilt and tasteless food placed on my nightstand.

He sat back in his spot at the foot of the bed. I was still furious and tired, among many other things that words cannot encompass. But I attempted an apology anyway.

"Don’t say a word," he sighed. "Eat."

We’re going to be angry at one another, and this will eventually end up in a screaming match followed by dreadfully remorseful apologies. But right then he made me drink enough water for it to poison me (which I was absolutely more concerned about than the drug thing), made me eat like an Italian grandmother, and stayed the week at mine. He helped me through that one.

He’ll help me through anything.

As much as I want to put words to the days that followed, I simply can’t.

Recounting my continuous relapses and subsequent withdrawal is not painless. These are some of the worst moments of my life—ones I am not proud of and ones I am disinclined to romanticize for the sake of this story.

I threw away the sobriety I put blood, sweat, and tears into in a matter of minutes, in a moment of weakness. And while I know relapse is not failure, I felt great loss and grief as I weathered my symptoms then.

Andy understood this in a way that surprised me. It was one of the things that initially drew me to him—his ability to feel what I feel without having to describe a thing to him myself.

We sat one night, after the headaches dimmed into a dull, bearable thud, on my bed with too much food between the two of us. I had lost a lot of weight, despite what I was eating—read: being force-fed—every day.

"There’s this opening I went to the other day," Andy said between mouthfuls of what seemed like inedible, weeks-old takeout. "It was stunning, Sully," he was excited about this, as he always is, expressive and animated.

"I thought you were doing that art history thing." Andy’s work is probably one of the most interesting things I get to know a lot about. His excitement is infectious, and it always seems to spark an idea for my own little projects.

"Yes, no. I’m still writing about openings, though," he paused to chew. "She’s been painting for years, apparently. It’s portraits of strangers," he gestured here and there with his hands without much purpose.

Well, I’m glad it’s not fucking circles inscribed in squares selling in auctions," We share a disdain for ‘modern art’. It’s either going to be insightful or regretful in a few years’ time.

"I don’t bother with them anyway," he said, looking up at me for the first time in a few minutes. "Why aren’t you eating?"

"Andy, every single food group known to man is currently sitting at the base of my stomach," I rested my hand on my stomach sympathetically. Andy took the increased appetite very seriously. Too seriously.

He weighed his options for a second, but eventually relented with a fine.

"We haven’t talked about it," he said slowly, pushing his plate slightly forward.

"I’m not sure I want to."

"Are you... well, are you craving it?" We’ve been doing this for too long to dance around it. And anyway, I appreciate the bluntness.

"It died down," I didn’t sound convincing to even myself.

"Died down?"

"Mm," I sighed, "Andy, I know I fucked up. I didn’t want it to be this. It all suddenly happened. It’s just a comedown. I’m not craving anything, I promise," I needed to breathe.

"Listen, it really is just a comedown. And I’ll be back there in no time. A little hiccup. It’s okay," he looked straight into my eyes, expressionless and silent.

I tried again.

"You know, I really appreciate this," and he interrupted me with a head shake and a hollow exhale.

"That’s not what I’m after, Sully. You know that," and I did.

I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, and my head fell to the pillows behind me. I wasn’t sure at whom my frustration was directed. I am tempted to say my parents, for the fuck of it.

"I’m sorry," he suddenly said.

I was still hiding behind my hands, "No, don’t be."

He put the food on the floor, plate after plate, and came to lay beside me. He looked at me as I looked at nothing.

"We can talk about it later," he suggested. Andy was never good with patience, despite his fervent protests against that particular belief of mine.

"No," I turned to him, "this will end now." I sat up against the headboard.

"I made a mistake, but it’s all over and done now. I’m still into the being clean thing; it wasn’t bad, and I can make this history by the end of the month," and even I knew it sounded like an alcoholic’s promises.

He looked at me like I was a bird with broken wings.