writers_muses | 103.3. Out of Control lyrics
Don't you know
That everyone around you
Has felt the pain you feel today
You're out of control yeah--and you want someone to tell you
When you wake up in the morning it'll only be a dream
You're out of control...
- Out of Control, Oingo Boingo
[Follows THIS]
It was a rude awakening regaining consciousness face down on the bathroom floor with your face in a pool of spilt vodka and your own vomit. When he tried to lift his head, pain shot through it and caused him to heave again. He pulled his face away in disgust and managed to peel himself off the floor. The bottle had smashed on the tiles, only discovering the fact when he put his hand down to try and push himself up, cutting the edge of his hand on a piece of glass. But that wasn't the most unsettling part of it all.
He had no recollection of getting to the bathroom... of anything beyond getting the bottle from that cabinet...
Once he pushed up into a sitting position, he surveyed the damage. Not only of the bathroom, but of himself. He was sick and in pain, his stomach roiling and his head pounding like his brain was trying to explode out of his skull. Vomit was streaked down the front of his shirt, and he could taste the horrible taste of it in his mouth. Now his hand was hurting from where he cut it, and the floor of the bathroom was a mess. He leaned back against the shower cubicle and put his uninjured hand up to his face as he started to cry in shame and sadness. He had fallen off the wagon in the worst possible way. When it all got too much, he couldn't even be strong enough to resist the temptation to drown out the pain again, the pride in himself of his eighteen month sobriety falling with him.
He got his cell phone out of his pocket, gripping it in his hand and smearing blood over the screen. He was so close to calling Luke or Leila for help... help that he so desperately needed. He couldn't do this on his own. He couldn't grieve and be strong against his addiction all on his own. He couldn't stay together and break all at the same time. The number didn't get dialled, though. Instead he just threw the phone to the side, sending it shattering against the bath tub. His blue eyes swept mostly unseeingly over the scene in the bathroom, but he just shook his head as he peeled himself up off the floor. Fumbling with the buttons on the soiled shirt to strip it off himself, he dropped it onto the floor near the shower and just left the bathroom. He knew he should clean it up, but the alcohol burning through his system stopped him processing and stole his rationality, just like it always did. It gave him the result he wanted, didn't it?
In the bedroom, Ali was curled up in a ball as far on her side of the bed as she could get, asleep and oblivious. Andrew leant against the frame of the door and watched her for a few moments, contemplating whether she even wanted him to share a bed with her. But it got too much for him to remain standing, the floor feeling like it was tipping underneath him. He stumbled to the bed and lowered himself onto his side, curling up much like a mirror of his fiancee, but clutching a hand around his head to try and stop the pain. He couldn't have been there much longer than a minute before the alcohol and exhaustion claimed his consciousness again, slamming down a shield around his awareness off the pain.
That's all he wanted, right?
All muses referenced with permission and are from the princeton2nyc universe
Word Count | 587
That everyone around you
Has felt the pain you feel today
You're out of control yeah--and you want someone to tell you
When you wake up in the morning it'll only be a dream
You're out of control...
- Out of Control, Oingo Boingo
[Follows THIS]
It was a rude awakening regaining consciousness face down on the bathroom floor with your face in a pool of spilt vodka and your own vomit. When he tried to lift his head, pain shot through it and caused him to heave again. He pulled his face away in disgust and managed to peel himself off the floor. The bottle had smashed on the tiles, only discovering the fact when he put his hand down to try and push himself up, cutting the edge of his hand on a piece of glass. But that wasn't the most unsettling part of it all.
He had no recollection of getting to the bathroom... of anything beyond getting the bottle from that cabinet...
Once he pushed up into a sitting position, he surveyed the damage. Not only of the bathroom, but of himself. He was sick and in pain, his stomach roiling and his head pounding like his brain was trying to explode out of his skull. Vomit was streaked down the front of his shirt, and he could taste the horrible taste of it in his mouth. Now his hand was hurting from where he cut it, and the floor of the bathroom was a mess. He leaned back against the shower cubicle and put his uninjured hand up to his face as he started to cry in shame and sadness. He had fallen off the wagon in the worst possible way. When it all got too much, he couldn't even be strong enough to resist the temptation to drown out the pain again, the pride in himself of his eighteen month sobriety falling with him.
He got his cell phone out of his pocket, gripping it in his hand and smearing blood over the screen. He was so close to calling Luke or Leila for help... help that he so desperately needed. He couldn't do this on his own. He couldn't grieve and be strong against his addiction all on his own. He couldn't stay together and break all at the same time. The number didn't get dialled, though. Instead he just threw the phone to the side, sending it shattering against the bath tub. His blue eyes swept mostly unseeingly over the scene in the bathroom, but he just shook his head as he peeled himself up off the floor. Fumbling with the buttons on the soiled shirt to strip it off himself, he dropped it onto the floor near the shower and just left the bathroom. He knew he should clean it up, but the alcohol burning through his system stopped him processing and stole his rationality, just like it always did. It gave him the result he wanted, didn't it?
In the bedroom, Ali was curled up in a ball as far on her side of the bed as she could get, asleep and oblivious. Andrew leant against the frame of the door and watched her for a few moments, contemplating whether she even wanted him to share a bed with her. But it got too much for him to remain standing, the floor feeling like it was tipping underneath him. He stumbled to the bed and lowered himself onto his side, curling up much like a mirror of his fiancee, but clutching a hand around his head to try and stop the pain. He couldn't have been there much longer than a minute before the alcohol and exhaustion claimed his consciousness again, slamming down a shield around his awareness off the pain.
That's all he wanted, right?
All muses referenced with permission and are from the princeton2nyc universe
Word Count | 587