Restore Me (Shatter Me #4)(67)

But today I take the time to look around, and the one space that piques my interest most is one I’d never noticed before. It’s the one positioned closest to the bedroom: an entire room devoted to Anderson’s enormous collection of alcohol.

I don’t know very much about alcohol.

I’ve never had a traditional teenage experience of any kind; I’ve never had parties to attend; I’ve never been subjected to the kind of peer pressure I’ve read about in novels. No one has ever offered me drugs or a strong drink, and probably for good reason. Still, I’m mesmerized by the myriad bottles arranged perfectly on the glass shelves lining the dark, paneled walls of this room. There’s no furniture but two big, brown leather chairs and the heavily lacquered coffee table stationed between them. Atop the coffee table sits a clear—jug?—filled with some kind of amber liquid; there’s a lone drinking glass set beside it. Everything in here is dark, vaguely depressing, and reeks of wood and something ancient, musty—old.

I reach out, run my fingers along the wooden panels, and count. Three of the four walls of the room are dedicated to housing various, ancient bottles—637 in total—most of which are full of the same amber liquid; only a couple of bottles are full of clear liquid. I move closer to inspect the labels and learn that the clear bottles are full of vodka—this is a drink I’ve heard of—but the amber liquid is named different things in different containers. A great deal of it is called Scotch. There are seven bottles of tequila. But most of what Anderson keeps in this room is called bourbon—523 bottles in total—a substance I have no knowledge of. I’ve only really heard about people who drink wine and beer and margaritas—and there’s none of that here. The only wall stocked with anything but alcohol is stacked with several boxes of cigars and more of the same short, intricately cut drinking glasses. I pick up one of the glasses and nearly drop it; it’s so much heavier than it looks. I wonder if these things are made of real crystal.

And then I can’t help but wonder about Anderson’s motivations in designing this space. It’s such a strange idea, to dedicate an entire room to displaying bottles of alcohol. Why not put them in a cabinet? Or in a refrigerator?

I sit down in one of the chairs and look up, distracted by the massive, glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

Why I’ve gravitated toward this room, I can’t say. But in here I feel truly alone. Walled off from all the noise and confusion of the day. I feel properly isolated here, among these bottles, in a way that soothes me. And for the first time all day, I feel myself relax. I feel myself withdraw. Retreat. Run away to some dark corner of my mind.

There’s a strange kind of freedom in giving up.

There’s a freedom in being angry. In living alone. And strangest of all: in here, within the walls of Anderson’s old refuge I feel I finally understand him. I finally understand how he was able to live the way he did. He never allowed himself to feel, never allowed himself to hurt, never invited emotion into his life. He was under no obligation to anyone but himself—and it liberated him.

His selfishness set him free.

I reach for the jug of amber liquid, tug off the stopper, and fill the crystal glass sitting beside it. I stare at the glass for a while, and it stares back.

Finally, I pick it up.

One sip and I nearly spit it out, coughing violently as some of the liquid catches in my throat. Anderson’s drink of choice is disgusting. Like death and fire and oil and smoke. I force myself to take one quick gulp of the vile drink before setting it down again, my eyes watering as the alcohol works its way through me. I’m not even sure why I’ve done it—why I wanted to try it or what I’m hoping it’ll do for me. I have no expectations of anything.

I’m just curious.

I’m feeling careless.

And the seconds skip by, my eyes fluttering open and shut in the welcome silence and I drag a finger across the seam of my lips, I count the many bottles again, and I’m just beginning to think the terrible taste of the drink wasn’t really that bad when slowly, happily, a bloom of warmth reaches up from deep within me and unfurls individual rays of heat inside my veins.

Oh, I think

oh

My mouth smiles but it feels a little crooked and I don’t mind, not really, not even that my throat feels a little numb. I pick up the still-full glass and take another large gulp of fire and this time I don’t dread it. It’s pleasant to be lost like this, to fill my head with clouds and wind and nothing. I feel loose and a little clumsy as I stand but it feels nice, it feels nice and warm and pleasant and I find myself wandering toward the bathroom, smiling as I search its drawers for something

something

where is it

And then I find it, a set of electric hair clippers, and I decide it’s time to give myself a haircut. My hair has been bothering me forever. It’s too long, too long, a memento, a keepsake from all my time in the asylum, too long from all those years I was forgotten and left to rot in hell, too thick, too suffocating, too much, too this, too that, too annoying

My fingers fumble for the plug but eventually I manage to turn the thing on, the little machine buzzing in my hand and I think I should probably take off my clothes first, don’t want to get hair everywhere do I, so I should probably take my clothes off first, definitely

And then I’m standing in my underwear, thinking about how much I’ve always secretly wanted to do this, how I always thought it would feel so nice, so liberating—