he's dealing with this has he deals with everything else: looking for solace at the bottom of a bottle. parker doesn't give a shit that it's unhealthy. no one has to tell him that he's slowly killing himself, that there were better ways of dealing with whatever the fuck was going on in his head. he's aware. he doesn't want a better way. he wants to sit and drink and numb his mind, drown out the thoughts, the flashbacks, of his mom and dad. a swig is taken from the vodka bottle, the thing half empty by now. the room is spinning, every inch of it blurred, the television at its full volume now muddled inside of parker's ears. when the doorbell rings, he's thinking about the little boy they had found at their recent crime scene. so fucking familiar that parker hadn't been able to compartmentalize like he normally would. the doorbell rings again and parker curses under his breath, the man standing, wobbly, from his sofa, staggering towards the door, looking out the peek hole to see alana. he doesn't want to see her ( he doesn't want her to see him like this ). when she knocks hard against the wood, parker takes a shaky breath, wiping his mouth before unlocking the three deadbolts and swinging open the door. 'i'm fine,' he slurs, brows furrowing as he tries to focus on her. 'don't fucking ask, because i'm fine,' @ephemaera.
