Don't drink kids pt. 2

This is a continuation. TW Substance and domestic abuse.

Hours later, Eli finally returned home. Scraping together scraps of sobriety, he pushed open the wooden door. A familiar smell landed on his tongue, mingling in the air with his mother's passive humming. No matter how silent he wished his arrival to be, his mother always knew. 

“Elijah!” The only person that called Eli that name peeked through the doorway, Hispanic accent rich as it curled over the syllables in it, “Where have you been?”

“Nathan’s, I told you this,”

His mother’s lips pursed, staring at him for several moments. He could feel her eyes tearing apart his appearance, his hollowed eyes and ghastly frame, the bruise blooming on his cheeks, and the mud in his clothing. Looking at her was like looking at a mirror. She had the same curly black hair, the same tired eyes, and a disheveled appearance, yet it was only she who wore a concerned expression; it was normal for a mother to be tired. 

“Be down for dinner in ten minutes,” There was a tone in her voice that spelled out her unspoken words; go make yourself presentable. 

He hated this house. 

Something was jeering about the wallpaper, something tormenting about the filthy carpet. As if the house itself was playing in the cruelty with its owner, Eli's stepfather.  The house was more than just another limb stemming from the rotten tree of his stepfather; it was also a reminder of what Eli lost. He lost crinkly smiles and sandy feet, he lost rotted floorboards and cinnamon rolls, cold showers and late night sunset watches. He lost Elijah when that heart monitor ran flat, and his father was lost. Eli remained, the last syllable of his name disappearing with him into addiction and abject misery.  

His phone clicked against his dresser, and he stared at the black screen for a few moments, bitterness rising in his chest. Back at Nathan’s house, when he returned to the phone, it was still lifeless, mocking him with his own reflection as he smashed the power button with no reward. The screen remained blank, broken during the party. He left it there and went to dinner. 

The loss of his phone wasn’t crippling until two a.m. Popcorn ceilings are only interesting for so long. Eventually, in its boredom, Eli's mind turned on itself. It began to recall how Johnathan Taylor screamed and begged him to stop hitting him. It began to replay Nathan’s words to him, you’re going to fucking die if you keep this up, Eli. It began to dwell on how he had awoken to fingers and lips not where he had ever wanted them to be and how he had no recollection as to what had happened before that moment. 

Seconds later, a bottle of vodka was emptied into his mouth, fetched from under his bed. 

When his mind finally went quiet, the clock read three a.m. This was the first time Eli found himself wishing for something that worked quicker. The second time was the next morning in the bathroom after his girlfriend stormed up and broke up with him. 

You’re a dirty fucking cheater. She had yelled at him, tears burning tracks through her makeup. He remembered looking into her eyes and seeing a world of pain reflected back at him, and he remembered not caring. 

Then, her mouth twisted into a sneer, an ugly sound escaping as she rasped You wouldn’t even have sex with me. 

She’s crazy. Eli thought, staring at his reflection. What is she even talking about? 

Eli supposes he did cheat. He supposes that being straddled and kissed by 

another girl falls into that category. For that reason, his lips remained locked as Ava screamed at him. For that reason, he drags himself to the school bathroom, gripping his water bottle of vodka, and stares into his reflection. Somewhere in his dead eyes, he finds Eli from two nights ago. An Eli who was oblivious to what was happening to his body outside of his alcohol-induced slumber. The gap in his memory still existed. No matter how hard he pushed to cross the black river in his memory, he only saw himself from that night reflected back at him among the emptiness. When he looked up at the bathroom mirror, he swore he could still see him. He existed in his eye bags and faded bruises, In the purple marks beginning to appear on his neck. 

He left the bathroom, stowing the bottle in his locker. 

Walking into class late was one thing; walking into class late because of the scene Ava had made was another. Neither bothered him. 

“Kind of you to join us, Mr. Llereno,” His teacher’s comment only exacted a hummed greeting. He could feel several pairs of eyes locked on him as he maneuvered to the back and sat beside his teammate Ajax. 

“Dude,” Ajax murmured after the class had settled, “Everyone’s shocked you did that, man,” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eli shifted in his seat, and the eyes of his classmates followed the adjustment. He should have known that Ava would spread the word about him allegedly cheating on her. “I didn’t mean to, I was wasted,” 

Ajax snorted, his head rolling back to drop his buzzed head on the desk behind him, exiting a giggle from the desk’s female occupant. “Nah, no one’s even mad. It was lowkey deserved,” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, Jonny’s a bitch. He needed to get checked at some point,”

Oh. They were not talking about the same thing.  

Eli huffed a laugh, and Ajax continued, “Did you see him, dude? He looks stupid. Like he fell down the stairs holding a hammer or something…” He trailed off smiling, “Why’d you do it?” 

“Mr. Lloreno and Mr. Brown, If I have to correct you again it will be detention for you both!” 

Ajax cocked a grin, “Radio silence from me here on out Mrs,” The class laughed, and Eli leaned back, seeing a bloodied Johnathan clearly in his mind. 

Why did you do it? He asked Eli two nights ago. That Eli smiled slyly at him, lofty curls hiding dead eyes shining with mystery. He would never unlock those memories, and his questions would remain unanswered. 

He ripped a piece of paper out of Ajax’s notebook and scribbled, You going to practice later? 

Ajax’s smile grew as he wrote back; course cap - Ajax <3

Nothing lifted Eli's spirits quite like football. There was something carnal about the sport. There was something visceral about the way it made him feel. Raw power curdled in his muscles every time he was pushed into motion. Every play, every run, it all flowed from his hands. As the starting quarterback and captain of the Crestwood High Dolphins, his name demanded respect on and off the field. The muscles that rippled along his figure were hard-earned, as well as the cadence in which his class spoke his name; awe and admiration. 

“Down. Set. Hike!”

Around him, chaos ensued as the time that Eli had in his haven behind the offensive line ticked. Immediately, he began hunting for Ajax and couldn’t help but grin. Ajax’s botched buzz and bleach job signaled two things; one, that he was terrible at fantasy football, and two, that he was wide open. His arm swung back, ready to throw, but he caught something in the corner of his eye. 

Jonathan, whose bruises framed a pair of murderous blue eyes, lunged at him. 

Shit. 

Eli lurched forward, letting the bumbling idiot throw his weight at where he had just been. This step exposed him, and the defense began to collapse upon him. 

Shit. 

Two defenders charged toward him, and Eli made a split-second decision to run. His muscles were pushed into action as he dodged his two attackers, carving a plot of space for him to make another decision. 

Not enough space. He realized as more and more players raced towards him. Keep going. 

He spun out of a player’s grasp and leaped over another crouched figure until finally, finally, he had enough room to pause and rip a pass in Ajax’s direction.

Received. Ajax made Eli's maneuvering look pitiful as he tore through the rest of the team and scored a touchdown.

Eli smiled to himself, turning to watch his team celebrate when something else caught his eye. 

Nathan, clutching his chest. 

“Are you okay?” Eli jogged over to him. 

Nathan looked up, his green eyes slightly unstable.

You’re going to fucking die if you keep this up, Eli.

 “Fine, just got the wind knocked out of me,” He brushed the dust off of his knees and stood up with a groan. 

Eli furrowed his eyebrows, “By who? Today's non-contact-”

“Jonny,” He said, eyes narrowing, “Trying to get to you,” 

Eli ignored the obvious question for as long as he could, but when it was just Nathan and him in the car on the way home, it was impossible to. 

“Why does Johnny have it out for you?” Nathan’s tone was blunt as if he already knew he’d be disappointed with Eli's response. 

“I beat him up,” Eli said flatly, “He probably wants to get even,” 

“What?” The car skidded to a stop as Nathan slammed on the brakes, his teeth clicking together as his jaw clamped shut. 

“I got wasted, and he must’ve pissed me off somehow,”

“Must have? You don’t remember?” Nathan was shaking now. Rage expresses itself in small tremors and large outbursts of stopping the car in the middle of the street. While it was unlikely for Nathan to do anything as risky as this, the person Eli was looking at was very much him. Nathan always had his feelings written all over him, and this was no different. His anger existed in every jerky movement and in every ragged breath as he pushed the car back into movement silently. 

Eli wondered why he cared so much. They were friends, sure, but if Eli wanted to drown at the bottom of a bottle, what would it mean to Nathan? What would it mean to anyone? 

The car ride passed in silence. Nausea slowly creeped up on Eli. He was so lost in the feeling that he hadn’t even noticed that they had arrived at his house. 

“Here,” 

Eli looked up, Nathan had a small black disk in his outstretched hand and shoved it onto Eli'slap. 

“For your phone,” He continued, seeming almost embarrassed as he put the car in park, “Wireless charger. You flooded the port,” 

Eli blinked at him, watching blood flush Nathan’s cheeks, “I tried to plug your phone In for you the other day, and the port was broken, and-”

“Thanks,” Eli stepped out of the car, feeling only his own sickness when he looked into the pool of complexity in Nathan's eyes. He cared not for the concern or how it was lined in a sort of brotherly affection. He cared only when a smooth glass bottle was in his hands minutes after Nathan drove off. 

The ancient clock in the kitchen rang eleven times, and Eli was able to drink in peace 

Late practice was a blessing in some cases. Practice ending at ten thirty created the perfect window after his mother and sister had gone to sleep and in between his and his stepfather’s arrival at home. For a brief moment of time, Eli was able to exist in the downstairs of his own house with the ghosts of his family.  To his left, his mom from three hours ago tirelessly cooked dinner, to his right in the living room Piper from five hours ago watched Bluey on the crappy TV and laughed to herself. Right in front of him, the front door banged open, and his stepfather from three hours ago walked in. Eli could see this scene clearly because he’d watched it play out every day for years. Every day for years he’d watch his stepfather, gruff and muddied from a day's work, jaw sharp and skin pulled white over his knuckles, he’d watch this man walk into his home and shatter the serene environment with the violence of his words injecting pure poison into the very walls of the house. He was sure that three hours ago, that man had walked into this house, yelled at his mother, and made his sister cry. The thought of that, well…

The thought of that made Eli's head tip back further and bury himself in the homey burn of tequila. 

His stepfather from right now came barging in through the front door. 

“The hell are you doing?” His words were slurred, the blacks of his eyes wide enough to swallow all the light in the room. 

The bottle smacked against the table with a deep clink, and Eli held contact with the dodgy pale blue of his stepfather’s irises. No thoughts pushed through Eli's drunken haze soon enough to stop his clipped response, “Skydiving,” 

He expected the contact, but the blood rushing to the point of contact between his stepfather’s hand and Eli's right cheek still stung. 

“Are you seriously fucking drinking right now?” 

Scream at me. Eli looked into this stranger's eyes, trying to see through the dimension and discover more depth. Tell me that it’s bad, and I need to stop. 

He didn’t.

Eli's cheeks burned and he swore he could still feel his stepfather's palm against the skin there. 

“Don’t fucking waste this,” drops of saliva hit Eli's cheek, “this is a nice drink,” the bottle was slammed against the counter once more, “it’s not for you to drown your shitty life in,”

It was like two sharks circling an injured whale; both lost in bloodlust that was worth more than the fresh meat between them. 

Eli typically kept his emotions under control. He prided himself on his serenity, which made him such a talented quarterback. Everything he did was rational and calculated. But something about a few drinks and his stepfather drove rationality to the dark corners of his mind, where he buried the memories of what came after reaching this state. He found a dark sort of confidence in the thought that he may not remember this conversation in the morning. 

“She only tolerates you for one round or something?” Eli ripped the bottle off the table. 

“The fuck did you just say to me, kid?” His stepfather moved forward, rage pumping through his sluggish bloodstream. 

“You’re home early. That other woman you fuck tell her you're not satisfying her anymore?” 

This time, it hurt a bit more when his stepfather hit him. Eli smiled against his torn inner cheek, a warm liquid pooling on his tongue. A twisted form of laughter bubbled in his mouth, blood swimming in his gumline as he let the sound ricochet through the room. Eli's stepfather’s eyes were too glassy to show the fear Eli could smell waving off of him. A drunkard and a drunkard fighting over mere ounces of alcohol and the scraps of dignity that remained in the bottle. A bar fight scaled down and brought home to the point where both parties had already lost. 

His stepfather did not move to stop him as he grabbed the bottle and trudged up the stairs. 

Eli started drinking two years ago. Two years ago, when the heart monitor ran flat, the last weak crest escaped the screen with the soul of Eli's father. He lost Elijah when that screen went blank, and his father was lost. Eli remained, the last syllable of his name disappearing into addiction and abject misery. The rest of him, those stubborn three letters, lived only with the aid of a suppressant. Alcohol drove all memory of his father to the dark corners of his mind, where he withered into whispers and cracked memories, torn and stained beyond recognition. His father from two years ago wouldn’t exist if Eli kept drinking.