The three best words to described me the next morning as I awoke in my bed at home are: sore, sick and miserable. Despite all that I had thrown up in Hood’s toilet I still hadn’t escaped having a terrible hangover, and in bed as I picked the crust from the corners of my eyes I had a sunken feeling in my heart and I couldn’t remember why.

Then it all came back. Flash after flash of memory hit me unrepentantly smashing my dazed and ill morning body into oblivion. Damo and Katya. Katya and Damo. Holding holding holding each other.

The sinking feeling in my heart quickly spread throughout my body like a virus, eating away inside of me. Misery flowed within my veins. They say that living things spend their whole lives dying, well that morning I could feel it. Death was approaching. So slow. And I was laying in bed completely empty, waiting for it. My stomach was churning. The workers inside of me screaming between painful pauses. Last night I’d emptied myself of tears – for a while. In the morning my body ordered me to empty out other things. As miserable as I was, I could have lay in bed for the rest of my life; no one would have cared anyway. But habit and cleanliness called me out of my chamber. Damo and Katya and the rest of the world may enjoy shitting all over me, but I refuse to shit on myself.

So I got up, turning my A.G.B (After Grog Bog) into an act of defiance against those who conspire against me. Exiting my room, I entered my hallway. Through the hall I stumbled before coming to my lounge room. In it, passed out on the couch: my father. As sick and melancholy as I was, seeing him made everything worse.

I hate my father. Hate hate hate him. He’s a drunken, bitter wasteland of a man whom was once my hero. Until two years ago I idolized him. Until two years ago I didn’t live with him. The reason I moved in with him was my mother. All my life since my parents split up I’d lived with my mum. When I was seventeen she told me the news that she’d gotten a promotion at her work – a promotion which took her Sydney to live. I had three options. I could either go with mum and leave my life, my school and all my friends behind. Or I could move out by myself which I didn’t have the money for. The last option was my Dad, whom I got on with greatly at that point. It seemed such a no-brainer.

I moved in with him and suddenly realised that his big nights out weren’t limited to the weekends. When I’d visited Dad on every second weekend I’d seen him go heavy on the alcohol but I’d figured it’s the weekend, whatever. It wasn’t just the weekends, and when I called him out on it, our relationship dissipated, slowly becoming what it is now.

Walking past the couch, I was soft, hoping not to wake him up. I was not in the mood for his shit. Eventually I arrived at my toilet. Sitting on it and letting rip, my thoughts began to drown me.

Why? Why had Katya been with Damo? Sure he was “hot” but I felt I knew her. I didn’t think she went in for that kind of stuff. I guess I don’t know her at all, I thought. All I truly knew about her was that she was a chick who hated her dad.

I didn’t even know her last known.

Wallowing in self-pity, swimming in a sea of despair, tears started slowly slipping down my cheek. Then I hit myself as hard as I could.

“Fuck!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Fuck Owen, fuck! You fucking idiot!”

I realised that everything was entirely my own fault.

Still seated on the toilet, I balled my fist and punched myself again with full force. Again and again I hit myself and again and again I deserved it.

I deserved it because I promised myself when Sara left that I wouldn’t lay my feelings on the line again. I deserved it because I was stupid enough to fool myself into thinking I was in love. I deserved it because I was the one who introduced Katya to Damo. I deserved it because shit like this always happened to me.

Repeatedly I went over the night – what I could remember of it. It was all my fault. I paid no attention to Katya. A flash of memory brought me more blame.

“We’re not going out.” I’d told Damo of Katya. I’d given him the green light. Again I hit myself. Again I screamed aloud.

“You fucking idiot! It’s all your own fucking fault!”

And then I was numb. Empty. I had nothing left. No more screams, no more punches. I was sitting on the toilet feeling more alone than ever. My gums were bloody from my self inflicted justice and there was nothing I could do. I cleaned myself up before rising and flushing the toilet. I grabbed some tissues and dabbed them against my gums gingerly as I exited the toilet and went back to my bedroom. Too numb to be in pain, I once again looked down scornfully at my father. His tired dilapidated carcass stinking up the lounge room. In the mood I was in, I could’ve killed him while he lay there.

I continued on to my room and sat on my bed. With the door closed, I sank back into my blanket. Holding the tissues against my gums and allowing them to absorb my life fluid, I gazed numbly at my surroundings. Ahead of me was a huge poster of Kurt Cobain. His dead face staring back at me like a reflection in a mirror. That was always my favourite poster – it had always seemed to capture the hopelessness that I felt my life was. Right now I was Kurt and I could only hope to reach a final solution like his. The peace of mind he found. All alone and drenched in thought, my phone rang. We had a cordless and it was buried under some clothes in my room. Slowly, slowly I went to the pile and dug it out. I answered the call.

It was Damo.

I didn’t know what to say. I was silent – he was noisy.

“What the fuck was up with you last night?” he barked angrily. What was up with me? I was furious, but still taciturn.

“Why’d you do a runner, man? You fuckin’ upset that chick.”

That chick. The girl of my dreams to him was just “that chick”. A conquest, nothing more. And I upset her?

“Fuck you, you fucking cunt! You’re not a fucking friend. You’re an arsehole! I fucking hate you and that fucking whore!” I thought – wishing I could say it. I couldn’t though. I’ve always hated confrontation. I just stayed voiceless as he continued.

“She was comin’ down heavy when you ran off. You made her like ten times worse.”

Comin’ down? I thought. Damo had paused; it was obviously my turn to speak.

“Coming down?” I asked.

“Yeah man…” And then there was silence. I waited, focused. Then he said it. “Oh shit dude, you didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“She was on E dude.”

What. The. Fuck.

“What do you mean?” I asked, momentarily forgetting that I hated her and didn’t care what the fuck she did.

“She’d dropped an E. While you were sick she started coming down. She was really low.”

Still in my thoughts: What. The. Fuck. Damo continued.

“So why did you run off?” he returned to his original inquiry – and suddenly I answered. I’d forgotten my feelings.

“’Cause you were with her.”

A strange hush that felt longer than it was echoed throughout the conversation. Then Damo spoke again.

“I was with her? What are you talking about?”

I wished I hadn’t said it. My feelings returned with added numbness and I was knee deep in confrontation. Without anger, I plainly stated:

“I saw you man. You were with her.”

Just as plain as I, he replied: “No I wasn’t.”

And without cowardice I confronted him. Whether it was the deadness I felt inside or the fact that I’d lost everything and had nothing more to lose, I had no reservations against it.

“Dude. I saw you. I came out from the dunny and you were hugging her.”

“Yeah…”

And he waited for me to continue, but I didn’t. That was it.

“Dude, I was hugging her because she was crying.” Crying?

“She was coming down dude. She started freaking out about it. She was talking about you and just started crying.”

Again I was plain. Slowly seeing my own stupidity unfold.

“That’s why I was hugging her. She was fucking miserable. She was crying something about you not knowing she was droppin’ and that you’d be pissed off.”

His words were painting a picture with me in the centre, burning and being crucified.

“You thought I was with her? What the fuck, man?”

And his question hammered in the final nail. And I was hating myself. The workers inside me were too awed to do anything, but their feelings were clear. I’m a fucking idiot. As my idiocy reigned supreme, I spoke. Almost to myself – but also for Damo to bring final clarity to.

“So she was coming down and depressed, and you were comforting her?”

“Yup.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“I can’t believe you thought I was with her. I wouldn’t do that to you man.” The first definitive words of friendship I’d ever heard from Damo. To anyone. “Dude, you better give her a call and straighten shit out. She thinks you hate her.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. The painting had become a feature length movie and was two hours of me destroying myself.

“Yeah… man.” I said numbly to Damo before just hanging up.

Again I stared at Kurt and again I was him. Desperate, lonely and miserable. Again I wished for his final solution. Again I’d fucked up everything.