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He felt weird. Uncertain. And he couldn’t do anything else but look at himself and wish he was different. Wish he wasn’t like this, wish he could fit in. Wish he didn’t feel this, this weird, indefinable feeling, something like guilt, like regret, like disbelief, like confusion and like something else. Something like disgust. He felt all of this and, at the same time, none of this.
He knew he hadn't done anything wrong but he still couldn't stop doubting it. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop looking at his trembling hands, at his face in the mirror, at his glassy eyes, a few tears on his cheeks, at his shivering lips he kept on biting trying to stop helpless whimpers and sobs from escaping his mouth. He couldn't stop looking and wishing he was different, wondering how it would be to be normal, to not have to hold back tears and count days until he will have to let his friends go, let him grow up when he’ll still remain a child. Count days until he'll just go back home knowing there's not a single birthday party, sleepover or warm, summer evening he’ll be able to spend with his friends or anyone. He knew this was the future, that it was getting closer with every single day. And he couldn’t even be mad about it. Couldn’t make everyone stay the same, he could never keep them in the past just for him, for his sake. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t. He wouldn't ever consider it nor dream about it. It would be too selfish, too sick and too impossible. Because it wasn’t them or the world who had a problem. It was him. So all he could do was just looking in the mirror and wondering how the future will look for someone as fucked up like him. Wonder if he’ll ever end up like her.
It all started the day before, at his boyfriend’s birthday party. And Noel really wanted this day to be special, something they both could remember because it was Misha's first birthday since they became a couple. Misha's 19th birthday.
And Noel knew there would be alcohol. Misha liked it, he enjoyed it. It helped him. It was only natural for it to be there because ‘it was a sacred tradition to take a drink on borthday’.
Noel smiled lightly through tears to his reflection remembering how Misha came up to him a month ago and invited him to his birthday. Run his fingers through his perfectly styled hair because he knew Noel hated it. Kissed his hand because he knew Noel loved it. Leaned closer because he knew it made Noel’s heart start beating faster. And he spoke with excitement in his voice. Noel knew he was also happy to spend birthday with the choir and Noel as his boyfriend. And then his voice got a little quieter, his thumb brushed Noel’s cheek in the middle of the school hall, not caring about other people, and murmured, his voice suddenly more tender and full of worry.
Noel still could hear those words. Words which probably had to come and even though he knew it, it didn’t make it any easier to listen to them.
“I… I’m getting some alcohol for my borthday. I know you don’t like it and just… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. “
Noel remembered how he felt at that moment, how he wanted to cry a little. They were together for long enough for Misha to notice that he didn’t really like to talk about alcohol. That in fact, he hated it. He hated the thought, the idea, the word and the memories and thought the only mention of it brought to him. But Misha never really asked about it, probably not knowing how to do it or just waiting for Noel to talk when he’ll be comfortable. And Noel… He always knew this time would come, that it was a completely normal thing. But he could still remember how his hands trembled slightly when he dug his fingers into his flesh as he curled them into fists. But he tried to hide it and tried to smile as he spoke back.
“It's okay. Just… you’re not going to get ‘drunk’ drunk right? And even if you do… that’s okay I can just go home then. It’s fine. It’s your birthday.”
He also remembered every single word, how Misha reassured him everything will be fine. How he really can not buy anything because Noel was more important to him. But Noel didn't want his problems, his way of thinking to influence Misha’s decisions or what he did or what he liked. It was Noel’s cross to bear, his issues, his weirdness, his trauma. His maladjustment to adult life.
If this was a normal get-together he would probably just skip it, just let others enjoy each other without his presence, his scared big eyes following every person he knew taking a shot or even shaking as he saw the bottles on the table. But he couldn't and didn’t want to skip his boyfriend's birthday. So he did his hair extra nicely, wore his best clothes, the necklace he got from Misha on his birthday, took the gift in his hand, a bag of snacks and cake in the other… And so he came.
It was peaceful, the choir and a few other people Misha knew. A small group of maybe 10 people. Not like much more would fit into Misha’s basement. They talked for a while, Misha opened his presents, Noel was sitting next to him, they were holding hands and kissing a few times. Until finally the bottles appeared on the table.
Misha took out the shot glasses and glanced towards Noel in silent question. No pressure. Never pressure. Noel shook his head. He wasn’t going to drink. But he came to the table anyway and sat down with everyone and just looked. And he really felt nothing. No disgust, no fear, no tears trying to spill out. He didn’t feel excluded from the group. He felt nothing.
But after they took the first shot he started wondering. The glasses were really small. Everyone was still acting normal, of course, they were one shot in. But still. And for the next few minutes he couldn't stop thinking about it. So when Misha stood up to pour another shot he called him closer and asked him to pour him half a glass. Misha looked at him surprised and told him he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to. In fact he told him that he also will stop drinking if Noel wants this from him. But Noel just shook his head again and said he was sure. Because he was. It was half a shot. The amount he would have eaten in two chocolates with liquor, which he loved and could eat the whole box of in one sitting.
So Misha poured him first. Half a shot. Then filled everybody else’s glasses, took Noel’s hand. And they all took a shot.
Noel’s first shot of pure vodka.
And he didn't feel anything. No guilt, no sadness, no disappointment in himself. Just how fucking disgusting it was.
Then he held the bottle for a minute. It felt such… unnatural in his hand. It didn't burn but it still felt like dirt. Like filth. As if he was doing something weird.
But he was okay. His hands weren’t shaking, tears weren’t filling his eyes, his mind wasn’t calling him a failure.
After some time he took another shot.
And after some more time another one.
And that was it. He knew he would never really get drunk. Every shot was carefully planned with a lot of food eaten in between and a lot of water drank to wash off the taste of soda and candies. He felt absolutely fine the whole time.
Misha did a few more shots, Noel watched him the whole time. It felt weird to watch it but he wasn’t mad. Never mad. He didn’t have the right to be mad. It maybe just made his heart ache that he could never be like him and other people. That he knew he didn’t belong now with them and with time… It will only get worse. But it was his issue. His cross. His life and his choices. And he knew he had to choose wisely.
Misha walked to him a few times that night, pulled him aside and asked him whether he was fine, whether he felt okay, whether he was uncomfortable or whether he saw him as a failure. Noel just smiled every time and said he felt fine and that Misha didn’t have anything to worry about. Because he was fine. He just couldn’t stop himself from looking at all those people and trying to analyze their behavior. Trying to notice whether every word they twisted, every burst of laughter or every look of their wild eyes was caused by late hours, lack of sleep and having a great time or alcohol in their veins.
Noel also felt okay when in the morning he kissed Misha, smelled the trace of alcohol in his breath, said goodbye to everyone and left.
He felt fine when he went home and laid down in bed to get some sleep after a sleepless night.
It all started in the evening when he woke up. When any thought didn’t occupy his mind, when music on his headphones turned melancholic. Then he looked at his hands. Looked at himself in the mirror. Noticed tears in his eyes. And remembered. And suddenly his throat hurt and he wanted to sob. But he couldn't understand why. He was fine. He was fine the whole time. He even began to think that maybe he’ll be normal one day. That maybe drinking with friends, seeing them drink, was different than seeing your parents do that.
But yet here he was. Crying. And couldn’t understand why.
He didn’t really feel anything. He could just stand in front of a mirror and wonder which it might be if it even was something.
Guilt? For drinking even though he always said to himself he would never do this?
Disgust? Because he saw his mother drunk practically every day and still choose to drink?
Fear? Because what if that’s how it started for her too. What if he’ll turn into her?
He knew if he did… He would hate himself more than anything. He would rip his hair out. He would hit his face until his nose would be broken and bleeding, until his lips would be cracked, until his eyes would be purple. He would either starve himself to death or let his body go completely. He would stop washing his face, brushing his hair or teeth. He would lie in bed in sweated clothes or watch TV all the time. He would scratch his wrists and neck. He would abuse his body and his mind. He would let himself rot. Let the bugs crawl on his skin, bite him, eat him alive. He would let all the horrible things happen to his body and his mind. All the things his mother deserved, he would face them… For becoming someone so similar to her.
Because he saw his mother drunk practically every day. Because every night if he wasn’t asleep long enough he could hear the clinking of the glasses, doors of the cabinet being opened and the liquor poured… And he could hear it multiple times a night. Because the moment he would come back home he could tell whether she was drunk from the few seconds which would pass since he stepped inside. He could tell it from the tone in her voice, the way she spoke, which words she used. He could tell it from the way she walked, moved. From the way she looked at him. He could tell all of this when nobody else could. Because he saw it all the time.
And even after all of this, after hiding in his room from her, hiding trash in his drawers because he was scared he would throw something out the wrong way, skipping meals, walking with his eyes glued to the floor so he wouldn't have to look at her, having to do something multiple times because she didn't remember he already did it, choosing not to take a shower some days so he wouldn't have to look at her or draw attention to himself, waiting as long as he could before going to the bathroom so he wouldn't have to make noise while walking, after countless arguments over nothing… He still chose to drink.
So now he was just standing, looking at himself trying not to look, thinking trying not to think, sobbing trying not to sob, listening trying not to listen and feeling trying not to feel.
Trying to understand why he felt like it while also trying to prove to himself that he didn’t feel anything. That he was making himself feel what wasn't there.
And yet he still didn’t know.
And he will probably never know.