Page 43 of Boots & Scars

The living room looked surprisingly tidy, but the pungent scent of alcohol hit me like a wall. It clawed at my throat, nearly making me gag. I glanced around and spotted the culprit: a broken bottle lying in shards against the far wall. It was clear he'd thrown it in a fit of anger or despair, and now glass fragments littered the floor.

I gently closed the front door behind me, not wanting to make any noise that might wake him abruptly. Each step felt heavy as I moved further inside, my heels sinking into the plush carpet. The tension in the room was palpable, almost as if it clung to every piece of furniture.

And then I saw him—Cooper—passed out on the couch. He looked different from the confident professor I had first encountered. His face was drawn, eyes closed tightly as if he were wrestling with some inner demon even in his sleep. The scars on his face seemed more pronounced under the dim light, adding to his troubled appearance. His shirt was wrinkled, and his hair stuck up at odd angles.

"Cooper," I whispered softly, unsure if I wanted to wake him or just let him sleep it off.

I took another step closer, my foot crunching lightly on a stray piece of glass. My heart skipped a beat as I watched for anysign of movement from him. He remained still, breathing deeply but unevenly.

Carefully, I bent down and started picking up the larger pieces of broken glass, placing them gingerly on the coffee table. My fingers trembled slightly as I worked, both from fear of cutting myself and from worry about Cooper.

I straightened up and looked at him again, feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness wash over me. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to be like this—so vulnerable and broken.

But here we were.

I took a deep breath and made my way over to the couch. Reaching out hesitantly, I touched his shoulder lightly.

"Cooper," I whispered again, hoping he'd wake up enough to talk to me or at least acknowledge my presence.

He stirred slightly but didn't open his eyes. His brow furrowed as if he were dreaming something unpleasant.

"Cooper," I tried once more, this time with a bit more urgency in my voice.

Finally, he groaned and turned his head towards me, blinking groggily as he tried to focus. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion.

"Killer?" His voice was hoarse and barely audible.

"Yeah," I replied softly. "It's me."

"The fuck are you doing here?" Cooper slurred, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. "It's a fucking dream… You're not real."

He turned, stumbling off the couch with an awkward lurch. Panic surged through me as I watched him sway on his feet, clearly unsteady. Before I could react, he bolted toward somewhere, leaving me no choice but to follow.

The bathroom, I realized.

By the time I reached the bathroom door, he was already hunched over the toilet, retching violently. The sound of himbeing sick echoed off the tiled walls, and my heart ached at seeing him in such a state.

Unsure of what else to do, I stepped inside and knelt beside him. I remembered how my mother used to rub my back when I was sick as a child, her touch soothing and comforting. Maybe it would help Cooper too.

Gently, I placed my hand on his back and began to rub in slow circles. "It's okay," I whispered softly. "You're going to be okay."

"Get the fuck off me!" he barked, his voice raw and filled with anger. He jerked away from my touch as if it burned him. "Christ, don't fucking touch me."

I pulled back quickly, tears pricking my eyes at his harsh words. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing with the sting of rejection. I shouldn't have come here. Clearly, he didn't want or need my help.

Swallowing hard, I stood up and took a step back, giving him space. My mind raced with uncertainty and doubt about what to do next. All I knew was that being here felt like a mistake—one that hurt more than I'd anticipated.

I stepped out of the bathroom, my heart still pounding from Cooper's harsh words. My eyes caught the glint of broken glass scattered across the living room floor. He was still drunk, that much was clear. If he stepped on the glass, it might ruin his skating career. I couldn't let that happen.

Taking a deep breath, I decided I'd clean up the mess and then leave. So what if I was late to the party? My mother's voice rang in my head about the importance of punctuality, but I pushed it away. This was more important.

I made my way to the kitchen, hoping to find something to clean up the broken glass with. The kitchen was neat and organized, much like the rest of Cooper's place. Dark wooden cabinets lined the walls, and stainless steel appliances gleamedunder the soft overhead light. The countertops were spotless, a stark contrast to the chaos in the living room.

I opened a few cabinets before finding a box of trash bags and a pair of rubber gloves. In another cabinet, I located some soap, a bucket, and a sponge. I gathered everything and returned to the living room.

Kneeling down carefully, I put on the rubber gloves and started picking up the larger shards of glass, placing them gently into a trash bag. The smaller pieces required more effort; I used the sponge to gather them into a pile before scooping them into the bag as well.

The entire process took longer than I'd expected. My hands shook slightly as I worked, both from fear of cutting myself and from worry about Cooper's state. But eventually, I managed to get all the glass cleaned up, including the pile I made on the coffee table.

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