Guys I am so sorry for the late update! I have been so busy trying to get my other three books ready for the wattys!!! Wish me luck!!
Oliver woke up with the taste of vomit in his mouth and a blanket over his body. His neck ached from sleeping on the floor and he couldn't recall how he ended up on the floor.
As he sat up, his father entered the room. Ed Scott had rolled his sleeves up and undone the top buttons of his shirt. His hands dripped with soapy water and Oliver assumed he had been washing dishes as he he had come out of the kitchen.
"You're up," He stated obviously.
"W-what happened?"
His father pointed at the remainders of a puddle of vomit right beside where he was sleeping.
"You threw up then passed out."
"Oh."
Ed opened his mouth like he was going to say something but he sighed instead and shook his head. He grabbed his jacket.
"Do you...do you need me to stay with you?"
He wanted nothing less in the world.
"Uh... no. No, I'm... I'm good."
Oliver was taken aback by his father's sudden caring façade. Ed was usually stiff, rigid and cold. In fact, he would have expected a roaring match between them instead of whatever was going on at that moment.
Ed nodded awkwardly and eyed the elevator. "Okay. I'll call you tomorrow. We can make a plan of action together."
Oliver shrugged and wiped his mouth from dried up puke. "Okay."
Knowing his father, Oliver was certain he wasn't going to call him. He just didn't have the energy to call him out.
Following Ed's departure, Oliver made his way to the kitchen in search for more alcohol but all he found were empty bottles. He hovered over the sink and took a deep whiff of the smell of alcohol coming from the drain. His father must have spilled it all. He retreated disappointedly back to the sofa where he flopped back down.
Oliver groaned dramatically. Why was Ed suddenly acting like he cared about his son's wellbeing? Still, at least he had come to check on him. His mother hadn't even called.
He heard the term 'alcoholic' being thrown around a few times the previous days. By his father, by Charlie, by Spencer, by Nora.... He acknowledged that he had somewhat of a problem attraction to alcohol but he could stop if he wanted to. In fact, he mentally decided he would stop drinking at that moment. He would abstain from drinking for the week. Because he could. Oliver Scott was more powerful than any silly 'addiction'.
In fact, he decided he was going to go on a walk to freshen up. Even a hangover couldn't bring him down. Self-control was his forte!
Oliver stood up but immediately slumped back down as vertigo got the best of him. He took a deep breath and decided to try again. His legs straightened up, propelling him upwards and he stood still for a few moments to ensure he caught his balance. Then, like a robot, he moved his legs, on in front of the other, until he reached the elevator. He reeked of vomit and there were stains on his shirt but he threw on a blazer to cover them. Through half-open eyes, he made his way downstairs and eventually outside into the fresh air.
And he walked.
He walked and walked and walked. With every step he could feel himself grow more tired but he kept going. His mind was abuzz, thinking over everything that had happened to him in that day. In twenty four hours he had gotten married and divorced and he had lost his job. Not to mention losing Charlie. And suddenly tears began to fall from his eyes. Traffic whizzed past, the sun was setting and the neon 'open' signs of the bodegas began to flicker on. And he cried and he walked and he cried and he walked. Suddenly one block became thirteen then twenty. He was very far from home. His path was lit by the flashing lights of New York and even as his legs ached he continued to walk aimlessly because it was the only thing he could do at that moment.
He rested at a quiet corner and tried to make sense of his thoughts. He still couldn't fathom how he had lost everything. Was it his fault?
Something sharp and pointy suddenly dug into his back.
"Give me your wallet."
Oliver didn't respond. So what if he got stabbed. It wasn't like anyone cared about him.
"I said give me your wallet."
Oliver couldn't turn around to the perpetrator but he seemed tall judging by his looming shadow. Sighing, he shrugged.
"I don't have it with me."
The man behind him dug his knife deeper, deep enough to leave a superficial wound. Any more force and things could get messy. And yet Oliver still couldn't find it in himself to... care.
"Fine. Give me your watch."
Oliver looked at bejewelled watch wrapped around his wrist. It was adorned with priceless diamonds and a carefully carved watch-face. It used to be Oliver's favourite watch. Nora had given it to him for one of their anniversaries....
"Take it."
Oliver carelessly took it off and plopped the heavy watch into the thug's open hand. He inspected it for a few seconds, allowing Oliver to turn around and face him. The sensible thing to do would have been to run away at that moment. But Oliver was angry. Angrier than he had ever been. Not at the shady man in front of him but at the world, at the fates and at the people who left him.
Oliver didn't realise his fist was clenched and suddenly it slammed the thug's cheek. He fell to the floor and Oliver got down to follow him, throwing punch after punch. He tried to cut Oliver with the knife but Oliver dodged before grabbing it and flinging it away.
He could feel the man become weaker and yet he still couldn't stop. Punch after punch, kick after kick.
"Please.... stop...."
Oliver suddenly froze after realising he could kill the man in front of him.
He got off the thief, allowing him to cautiously stand up before limping away. Oliver looked down at his bloody knuckles. They didn't even hurt.
He dusted himself off and walked back home, suddenly numb to any thought.
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After arriving back home, Oliver made an apathetic beeline to the bourbon in the living room. He didn't even think about how he had said he would abstain earlier in the day. Even as he passed the framed photos of him and Nora, he felt nothing. He didn't feel anything as he downed his first, second, third or fourth cup. The only time he felt an emotion was after finishing the bottle of bourbon. That was when he felt disappointment. He needed more. His car keys laid temptingly beside the decanter and he stroked them with his hand. He wasn't that drunk. He definitely could have driven his Rolls Royce down the block then back up. It would all be fine.
He went to the car park, finding his beautiful black car shining in the distance. He entered it and took a deep breath as he sat down. It felt foreign sitting it the driver's seat. He was usually never sober enough to drive. It revved gloriously as he began to move. He made sure to drive very slowly to avoid getting pulled over. The street was relatively empty and all he had to do was drive straight.
He could hear cars honking at him but he had no idea why. The cars in front of him suddenly multiplied. It was either double vision or very inconvenient traffic. He placed his foot on the brakes but that only seemed to make the car go faster. Still calm, he merged into an empty lane while trying to slow the car down to no avail. As his car neared a lamppost he realised he had been pressing on the accelerator. However it was too late and his expensive car smashed into the tall pole.
Oliver's head shot forward then back, banging against the headrest just as the airbag inflated. His arm stroked the door until he found the handle to open it and he threw himself out. Thankfully, he only had a few cuts and probably whiplash. But he was alive. Would anyone miss him if he wasn't?
"Hey, are you okay?!" A bystander called out.
Oliver blinked blankly at her. "Um, yeah."
"Your car is totalled! Do you want me to call someone?"
Oliver turned to inspect his car. The metal at its front was completely warped and bent. Chunks of the engine lay scattered on the ground. The airbags were popped out like sad balloons celebrating his rock bottom.
Without responding, he began to stagger away, dragging his sore leg behind him.
"Hey! What are you doing?! What about your car?"
Oliver didn't look back. Instead he took out his phone and called his chauffeur.
"Hello?"
"I just sent you a location. The car is wrecked. Sort it out for me."
"What? Sir, are you okay?"
No.
"Just clear up the mess. And come quick."
Oliver hung up and started to walk back home. His face felt numb. Maybe it was from the cold. His hands were shaking terribly. He wasn't okay. He would never be okay.
He walked. And he walked and he walked and he walked.
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Y'all... I am so sorry for the late update.