WHISKEY AND WOUNDS

Chapter 1 --- The door slammed so hard the walls shook, and for the first time, Pearl didn’t look back. She’d had enough of her parents’ constant nagging—it was seeping into her veins, making her blood boil. Anger vibrated through her, a familiar burn that only a bottle of alcohol could soothe. These days, she drank far too much, and tonight would be no different. PEARL POV As I approached the liquor shop, I already tasted the bitter comfort waiting for me. Two bottles of beer, the kind that could numb my mind and soothe my frayed nerves. The beer here was good—better than most. I scanned the shop, my eyes landing on a dusty chair tucked away in the far-right corner. Of course, no vendor in Lagos ever offered a seat; courtesy was a luxury, not a given. No surprises there. I dragged the chair out myself and settled in, craving the stillness. “Madam, na him be this,” a voice interrupted my thoughts. A boy, no older than fourteen or sixteen, placed the bottles in front of me. His posture, his hurried movements—they screamed exhaustion. From the way the shopkeeper barked orders at him, it was clear he was just another salesboy. Modern-day slavery with a salary, if you could call it that. As he moved on to attend to another customer, I couldn’t help wondering where his parents were. Did they know where he was? Did they care? My gaze shifted to the customer he had been serving, and I froze. His sharp eyes locked onto mine, a look of disgust twisting his face. It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking. A woman, drinking alone at this hour? What kind of woman does that? I smirked and leaned back in my seat, amused. Hypocrites, all of them. A man could drink himself into oblivion, and no one would blink an eye. But a woman? Suddenly, it’s a scandal. Scandal it is, then. Let him stare. Let him judge. It didn’t bother me in the slightest. He could glare at me until his eyes bled—I wasn’t going anywhere. But as I took a long sip of the beer, bitter and oddly comforting, my mind drifted—back to the reason I was sitting here in the first place. Jacob Jablonsky. The real devil. We’d always had problems, Jacob and I. Every time we clashed, things got messy—words flung like daggers, emotions shredded. But what else did I expect when I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him? I’m such a joke. The thought burned, sharper than the alcohol sliding down my throat. I’d thought saying no would mean something—that it would show him my boundaries were firm, that I wasn’t some object to be claimed. Instead, it turned me into a fool in his eyes. And maybe, in mine, too The disgusting thought of a woman curled up on him, giving him the ride I had probably—just probably—hoped to give him on our marriage bed, made me sick. I rushed to the nearest gutter and vomited. I’d drunk eight bottles of beer. I’m such a heavy drinker, deceiving myself into thinking two would be enough. I knew I had to leave quickly, or else I’d end up sleeping on the unforgiving streets of Lagos, where my fate would rest in the hands of the area touts. "Haaaaa... what a day." Just as I tried to rise and stumble away, a familiar face caught my eye, and I froze.