"Fuck!" I yell, throwing the glass that's in my hand across the room and at the bricks of the fireplace, revelling in the sounds of the glass shattering followed by the shards falling to the ground.

I pick up another glass, repeating all the motions, but then deciding that this is the least efficient way to deal with my worries.

My next resort is to head straight for the liquor cabinet.

I find an unopened bottle of whisky, and figuring that my dad probably won't miss it, I pop it open, taking a large sip. It takes absolutely vile but I still welcome the bitter taste knowing that when the alcohol kicks in, it'll numb the pain a little.

I take another large gulp, stalking back over to the living room and taking a seat on the floor.

Though I'm careful not to sit directly in the glass, I pick up one of the shards between my fingers. It pierces through the skin, cutting the callous-free part of my fingertips. I let the drop of blood trickle down my hand before wiping it away on the black denim of my pants, taking another sip of whisky.

At moments like these, I fucking hate having such a high tolerance. I keep on drinking the awful amber concoction, growing to love the way it burns as it slides down my throat.

This is exactly why I shouldn't drag Blossom into my shit. Whenever I fuck up, I get drunk out of my mind rather than actually dealing with the issue.

Now I'm laying here, alone on the cold living room floor, after I just ruined the one good thing I've ever had.

I keep drinking until everything around me turns to black.

🌸🌸🌸

"Fuck you, Leo. You always get your damn way, and I think it's time to change that," she spits, her expression harsh but her hands shaking.

She keeps the gun pointed directly at my dad's face, but her hands are unsteady and I know she won't get a good shot when he's that far across the room.

"Sierra, just put the gun down," my dad says

calmly, daring to take a step towards her.

She straightens her arm out, the weapon jerking in her hand as she steps back away from him.

"Don't test me," she hisses.

"Mom, please just put the gun down," I plea, and she spins around, now directing it at me.

"Stay out of this, Bryce," she warns, and my dad takes this window of opportunity to run towards her, trying to grab the gun.

She spins around, realizing that she's about to lose her chance, and just as he reaches for the weapon, she pulls the trigger.

It all happens so fast, but the gunshot is loud, and my dad's scream is even more piercing.

"Fuck, Sierra!" he growls, gripping his shoulder where the bullet seemed to have entered. She has an evil glint in her eyes, and she's enjoying the view in front of her enough that I'm able to grab the gun right out of her hand.

"You're such a bitch," I say to her, grabbing her wrists when she tries to reach for the weapon again. I slide it across the counter to where my father is, and he picks it up and sets it down behind him.

My mom tries to break my grip but I pin her arms to her side, and she doesn't have the strength to fight back.

My dad uses his good arm to reach into his pocket, and when he recovers his phone he quickly presses a few buttons on the screen before holding the device up to his ear.

"Nine-one-one?" I ask, and he nods at me.

I wince when I see the blood staining his shirt, and as much as want to go over and help him, I still have to hold this madwoman down.

I wake up from the nightmare to find my flailing body being pinned to the ground.

"Jesus Christ, kid," my dad huffs, grabbing on of my hands and pulling me up into a sitting position. "Do you have any clue how terrifying it is to walk into the room and find your son on the floor screaming?"

"No, I don't," I answer dryly. "In case you've yet to notice, I actually don't have a son."

My dad's glare makes me rethink my words, and I blink a few times in realization before warning, "Don't go there."

He elbows me in the side before standing up, and offering me a hand.

My dad pulls me up off the ground and I'm instantly dizzy, my head feeling heavy as the room spins around me.

"Stop being a smart ass," he scolds, hauling me over to the couch before letting me drop backwards onto the cushions.

He then spots the nearly empty bottle of whisky, picking it up in his hand and holding it up in my face.

"Really? What did you do this time?" he asks, acknowledging my bad habit of getting drunk whenever I screw up. He then sets the bottle back on the coffee table before he takes a seat on the chair next to the couch that I'm on.

My head is pounding to an extreme, and all I can manage is a one-word answer.

"Lexi," I tell him, and his eyebrows raise up.

"Well shit. What's the issue?" he continues to prod, and as much as I'd love to tell him to kindly fuck off and go mind his own business, I'm really not in the mood to get my ass beat right now.

"I kissed her. And then she got mad at me for not wanting to date her or some shit and then I got mad because she thinks that me kissing her twice means that I want to be in a relationship with her. Like damn, it's just kissing. I've done more with girls I despise," I snort, and that's when I get slapped in the arm.

"You're being unreasonable and acting like a child. You should respect her thoughts and stop belittling her for them," my dad tells me, and I groan, my head throbbing too much for this shit. I shut my eyes, burying my face into a pillow.

"Whose side are you even on? And yeah, I know that she's way too good for me, but I keep telling her and she won't listen. I'm such a shitty person," I sigh.

"You're not a shitty person. You just often make shitty decisions," my dad says, and I roll my eyes even though he can't see it.

"Gee, thanks," I comment, and he pats me on the back.

"You can't expect her to wait around for you to get your shit together," he tells me, and I don't argue because I know he's right.

I hear him stand up from his seat, ruffling my hair before walking past me and out of the living room.

"Go take your contacts out and get some sleep. You can clean up this mess in the morning," he tells me, shutting off all the lights.

"Did you at least take your medication?" he continues to ask, and I shake my head before realizing that he can't see me.

"No. I don't like having that crap in my system," I answer, and he snorts in response.

"You don't like having prescription Xanax in your system but you're fine with having a whole bottle of whisky?" he asks, and I raise my hand up, giving him the middle finger.

"Really mature, Bryce," he says, his footsteps sounding as he resumes his journey upstairs.

I sit up in my seat, watching as he walks out into the hallway before I stop him.

"She doesn't realize that I know," I tell him, and he turns back to me.

"She doesn't?"

I shake my head in response.

"Talk to her. When the time is right. Don't bring it up for no reason," he instructs, and I nod at him.

"Thanks, dad. I love you," I say, laying back down on the couch knowing damn well that there's no way I can make it back up to my room in this drunken state.

"I love you too, kid. Goodnight," my dad says, before walking out of my view.

I lay there helplessly, staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall back asleep. My heart physically aches, and no matter how hard I'm trying to ignore the pain right now, I end up in tears.