Chapter 2- Rough Night

He can't take it anymore.

The shadow had ruined everything. Again. Will drained another Budweiser, tossing it with a sloppy crash onto a newly formed pile of trash. His failure to procure any sort of job coincided perfectly with a rising desire to get obliterated. His shadow smiled more, returned more often to the size of a cat or a rat. It told him cheerfully that he was worthless as he popped open a new beer.

“Fuuuuuck you,” he slurred angrily, and took another gulp. His comfort in being alone all the time had grown, and now he talked to the shadow often. The strange echo his empty apartment shot back at him hardly registered anymore. A long green couch was molded with his shape. He’d worn the same boxer shorts ten days in a row. If he had stepped outside, and then returned, he might have noticed how stagnant the air was becoming. If anyone entered, they would be blasted with the mixed scents of stale pizza boxes, body odor, and slowly evaporating alcohol.

On a cluttered table a newspaper was opened to the work ads, several jobs circled in red pen. Will could barely remember doing it"one morning several days ago he’d been struck with a sudden surety"he would be fine, he was capable, he could do it, if he only tried, his dreams would embrace him with open arms. Unfortunately, he was still drunk from the night before, and his voice stammered when he called. He forgot what to say. The shadow sat astride his shoulder, whispered into his other ear, making it hard for Will to hear. It pointed out to him the doubt in the voice on the other line. They know you’re a fool. He hung up without saying goodbye as his veins collapsed in on themselves and all his organs fell to his feet.

In his dreams, Will could fly. Sleep was his favorite place. Consciousness was dark and damp, a confusing blend of real and imaginary shadows. But when he was overtaken, he walked out the front door. Huge white wings stretched from his back, a lovely release of a cramping ache. He began to run. Concrete pounded beneath his feet; muscles stretched and burned that hadn’t been used in ages. The most beautiful thing about it was the overwhelming clarity"direct sunlight warming his skin, a wonderful lightness, and a feeling that didn’t exist for him in waking life: joy. He flung himself into the air with a happy carelessness, and his wings caught an updraft, sent him soaring into the atmosphere. Vibrant colors confronted him. Clouds consumed him and spat him back out. He lingered over the surface of the ocean, trailing a hand through the silky water. He could do anything.

Anything. A hand clamped over his mouth until he woke, struggled to scream, to breathe, he told his arms to fight but they were restrained as well, intense pressure pinning his abdomen down. Minutes or hours passed. Impossible to tell. As his lungs began to unclench, the fuzziness around his mind cleared. It was the shadow on top of him, it had grown to an impossible size, it was snarling possessively, shouting incomprehensibly. Claws dug into his chest, scratched downwards, and he cried out in pain and sat up sharply, clutching his arms protectively to himself. A hammer beat steadily against his temple.

He rubbed his head, breathed deeply, but the pain in his middle only intensified. His clumsy feet sent him staggering across the room to the bathroom mirror. Was this real? He stripped off his shirt, touched the wounds raked across him. It felt real. He pulled his fingers away, red with blood. Looked real. Had he done this in his sleep somehow?

Will seized the edges of the sink, stared into his own sky blue eyes. Stubble lined his cheeks, shadows slashed tired lines above his cheekbones.

Did you do this to yourself?

Are you crazy?

The shadow was silent, for once. No sound permeated the small, white bathroom. He had no answer for himself, nor any accusations. He had never cut himself before. He couldn’t remember ever having done such a thing.

What happened last night?

Whiskey. Lots of whiskey. A flash of red"what felt like fire, consuming him, he wanted to hurt someone. Shattering glass against a wall. Another burn to the back of his throat.

Will glanced towards the living room, caught a glimpse of wood shattered across the floor.

A loud knock against the door. Will jumped, his heart pounding, suddenly afraid. Shadows couldn’t knock, could they? He rose unsteadily and clambered across the remains of his furniture. He peered through the peephole, leaning heavily against the door. Jeremiah. A small Irish man who was engaged to Will’s sister, once upon a time. He and Will both loved model cars and planes at the time (he was only 11) and they bonded over them, spending many afternoons in the woodshop together. Jeremiah became the father he’d always wanted, to replace the father who’d left before Will could remember him. He became the brother he’d never had.

But then his sister found a better-looking Irishman to marry instead, and Jeremiah left, too.

“Let me in, William.” His deep resounding voice and another set of loud knocks sent Will reeling away, clutching his hands over his ears to try to block out the sounds ringing through his aching head. In a few quick motions he threw open the locks and the door.

The two men looked each other over. Ten years had not changed Jeremiah much"the biggest differences Will could see were a slightly bigger waistline and a somber expression, instead of his old cheery disposition.

“You look terrible,” Jeremiah said. His gaze settled behind Will, on the scene of destruction. “Blimey! What happened?” He pushed past him to look around, and turned back with a set jaw. “Did someone break in?”

Cheeks flushed, unable to meet his eyes, Will muttered, “No.”

He watched Jeremiah look around again at the extent of damage. A window in the corner of the room was shattered, a slight wind twisting through the jagged remains, blowing leaves onto the carpet. A large oak table had been split down the center, some of the legs hacked off. The few chairs he’d owned were dismembered and piled up, as if to start a bonfire. Broken bottles littered the room. Old newspaper and empty food containers randomly dispersed around the crowded space. His small black and white TV looked as though it had been thrown against the wall. Face-up on the ground, the screen splintered, white tendrils snaking out from a spiderweb shape in the center.

Will tried to shove his hands in his pockets, then realized he was only wearing boxer shorts and an old band t-shirt. He turned to the bedroom to find clothes. “Give me a minute.” Gruffly. Not the way he talked to himself. Jeremiah nodded. “Sure.”

With the door closed, he peeled his shirt off to inspect the long scratches on his chest. They weren’t bleeding much. A surface break, like a very large cat had decided he looked like a fun toy to play with. Still, they hurt. And they’d stained the inside of his favorite shirt.

“So, listen, Will.” Jeremiah spoke loudly through the door. “Your sister asked me to come. She’s been worried about you. You don’t call. You aren’t returning anyone’s messages.”

Will glanced over at the door. What was there to say? He remained silent, pulled on a pair of jeans, then rethought it and changed into a new pair of boxer shorts first. His reflection inspected him, ran a hand through its own tousled hair. Good enough.

Upon opening the door, he was met with Jeremiah’s anxiety. He could feel it pulsing from the other man.

“Here I am, Jeremy. Fit as a fiddle.” He could hear himself, his dry sarcasm, and felt bad. But his words were already out into the air, so he stuck with them. “What can I do for you?”

Jeremiah’s discomfort only seemed to increase. “You’re coming to an AA meeting with me.”

“What?”

He gestured to the bottles broken around the room. “You have a problem.” Will followed his gaze. There were a lot of bottles. But those were from weeks of drinking. He wasn’t an alcoholic.

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Who did this to your apartment, Will?”

Something caught in his throat. He found himself, again, unable to meet his eyes. Who had done this? Will felt the shadow smirking at him, curled like a cat around his shoulders again. It whispered in his ear. You did it, crazy.

“You’re coming to AA with me. It’s okay, Will. We’ll get you sorted out.”