PTSD made me its bitch five months ago, and I started relying heavily on Jack Daniel’s and tequila. I’ve always been a heavy drinker since I had my second drink of liquor when I was sixteen years old and I threw a house party when my ma went out of town for her job.

By the time I run home, the rain drowns me, and the sky’s weeping gray is depressing and sad. Whoever said that weather can affect your mood wasn’t lying.

I rush up the stone stairway of my sanctuary, made out of gray stones. I had it custom-built to look like a castle from the Victoria era. Gargoyle statues sitting on the roof, staring down at me.

Bile rises in my throat as I vomit in the expensive plants that I wasted thousands of dollars on, something Monique, my interior designer, made me buy. She thought it would make the bright colors of the plants pop on the gray landscape—whatever the fuck that shit means.

I type in the passcode on the pad above the brass knob and swing the door open. I strip my gray T-shirt and basketball shorts off and toss the wet clothes on the wooden floor.

My home is as depressing as a gravesite.

Fuck me, my feet feel like I’m walking on a thousand knives as I limp to the kitchen.

I grab the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the top of the fridge and unscrew the lid, downing the burning liquor wincing as it hits my throat.

“He can’t hurt us anymore,” I mumble under my breath and drain the remainder of the bottle, then I toss it against the wall. It shatters into millions of pieces on the marble floor. “Fuck!” I yell.

When will it stop? The pain, the guilt of that night playing in my mind like a rerun-on TV.

I stare at the black wall as if the answer to my problem is written on it.

The buzz from my phone snaps me out of my stupor. I grab it and see a message from Gia.

Rainbow: Are you coming in today? You have a lunch meeting with Lilly Green at 12:45.

Lilly is a supervisor in the marketing department who annoys the shit out of me. She wants to ride my dick like a surfboard. No, thank you. I’m not interested in fucking my employees.

I fire off a text to Rainbow.

Me: Clear my schedule for the week.

And I toss my iPhone on the marble counter, limp to the living room, and lie on the black couch. I stare at the high ceiling fan as it moves in slow motion.

I’m sick of the guilt eating at me.

I’m sick of feeling empty.

I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.