KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
He never had a problem with alcohol before. He would drink sometimes, got drunk and then got better. Went long periods without, to the point where Weaver wondered if something was wrong when he had a goblet of mulled wine early one afternoon. She had been the prolific drinker, though it was always under control.
But when his world came crashing down around him, it had been a convenient means of escape. When he couldn't die and couldn't sleep, drinking became the next best thing. If he was plastered, he didn't have to think. Didn't have to feel, or face a reality he was unequipped to cope with. If he downed a few bottles of hard liquour it would make him drop off eventually, and those moments of unconsciousness became the relief he sought. That he thought he needed.
There was no way to drink that hard and that much without it leaving marks. Korbin might be young but he also didn't get food or rest. It had been long hours since he had his last glass and the shaking hands screamed of a need he refused to see as a problem.
He did not insist. Took the refilled cup of water and drank it with more intent, dry as parchment. When the plate was held up before him, he recoiled from it, from the smells that jabbed at his nose. Clawing, tearing. The grease made him gag and drool at the same time. Reluctantly, he picked up the bread. Tore off miniscule chunks and popped them into his mouth, chewing like it was the hardest thing he had ever done. Getting a few morsels down, he waited. Felt his stomach churn, consider, tighten with a pain like kicking feet.
The bin was a good touch. As it turned out, he could not keep the food down, and his throat felt like an open wound by the time Korbin stopped heaving. After rinsing his mouth with more of the water, he slumped back on the bed, shivery and weak.
"Living sucks," he declared, in a broken whisper that held no trace of humor. There was a note of accusation in there, that longed to blame Chulane for this misery.
But Korbin was self-aware enough to acknowledge that at least this bit of misery was his own doing.
But when his world came crashing down around him, it had been a convenient means of escape. When he couldn't die and couldn't sleep, drinking became the next best thing. If he was plastered, he didn't have to think. Didn't have to feel, or face a reality he was unequipped to cope with. If he downed a few bottles of hard liquour it would make him drop off eventually, and those moments of unconsciousness became the relief he sought. That he thought he needed.
There was no way to drink that hard and that much without it leaving marks. Korbin might be young but he also didn't get food or rest. It had been long hours since he had his last glass and the shaking hands screamed of a need he refused to see as a problem.
He did not insist. Took the refilled cup of water and drank it with more intent, dry as parchment. When the plate was held up before him, he recoiled from it, from the smells that jabbed at his nose. Clawing, tearing. The grease made him gag and drool at the same time. Reluctantly, he picked up the bread. Tore off miniscule chunks and popped them into his mouth, chewing like it was the hardest thing he had ever done. Getting a few morsels down, he waited. Felt his stomach churn, consider, tighten with a pain like kicking feet.
The bin was a good touch. As it turned out, he could not keep the food down, and his throat felt like an open wound by the time Korbin stopped heaving. After rinsing his mouth with more of the water, he slumped back on the bed, shivery and weak.
"Living sucks," he declared, in a broken whisper that held no trace of humor. There was a note of accusation in there, that longed to blame Chulane for this misery.
But Korbin was self-aware enough to acknowledge that at least this bit of misery was his own doing.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
