He was pacing like a caged animal, his boots crunching over the shards of a ceramic lamp he’d swept off the end table seconds ago. His face was flushed a deep, dangerous crimson, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead.

"You think you’re my fucking mother? Is that it?" Frankie roared, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his lungs. He kicked the coffee table, sending it skidding inches away from your shins. "You don't get to touch my shit! Not the bottles, not the gear, nothing!"

"Frankie, you were blacked out for ten hours," you tried to say, but your voice felt heavy, like you were speaking through a mouthful of cotton.

"I don't give a fuck!" He spun around, grabbing a framed photo of the two of you and throwing it against the wall. The glass exploded in a glittering spray. "This house? Mine. Those clothes you’re wearing? I bought 'em. Everything in this fucking place belongs to me, so who the hell are you to decide what stays and what goes?"

He was in that dark, hard place again, the place the jungle and the war had carved out inside him, fueled now by the withdrawal screaming in his veins. He grabbed your laptop from the counter, his knuckles white.

"You like throwing my things away? Let's see how you like it," he spat, his eyes wild and unfocused. He slammed the laptop onto the hardwood floor and stomped his heel directly into the center of the casing. The sound of snapping plastic and glass echoed like a gunshot. "Fair’s fair, right? That’s what we’re doing now?"

He reached for a stack of your favorite mugs, his hand trembling with adrenaline. One by one, he smashed them into the sink, the clatter deafening. He was a whirlwind of senseless destruction, a man trying to break the world because he couldn't control himself.

"Frankie... stop..." You reached out, your hand trembling, trying to catch his arm to ground him.

He swiped his arm away, retreating a step, his chest heaving. "Don't touch me. Just stay the fuck away until you learn to keep your hands off-"

He stopped mid-sentence. His mouth stayed open, the words dying on his tongue. He blinked, squinting through the haze of his intoxication. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the anger on his face curdled into a confused, ugly sneer.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, rough rasp. "Stop it. Stop making that face. It’s not fucking funny."

You tried to respond, but only a soft, wet moan escaped your lips. The right side of your face had gone slack, the corner of your eye and mouth drooping downward as if the muscles had simply quit.

"I said stop it!" Frankie yelled, though the bravado was leaking out of him, replaced by a cold, sharp dread that pierced through his drunken fog. "You’re trying to scare me? Is that the bit? Fucking look at me!"

He stepped forward, reaching out to grab your shoulders, but before his fingers could graze your skin, your knees buckled. Your body went limp, tilting dangerously toward the sharp sea of broken glass and ceramic shards littering the floor.

"Whoa- hey!"

Frankie’s combat reflexes, buried deep under the booze, kicked into overdrive. He lunged, his large hands catching you under the arms just inches before your face hit the wreckage of the lamp. He pulled you hard against his chest, sliding down to his knees with you cradled in his lap.

"Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me, baby," he pleaded, his voice trembling now. He saw your eyes rolling back, your right arm hanging uselessly at your side.

The smell of his own sweat and the alcohol he’d been fighting for suddenly made him want to vomit. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. With shaking hands, he fumbled into his pocket, dragging his phone out and nearly dropping it onto the floor.

"I got you, I got you," he whispered, his thumb hovering over the screen as he dialed 911, his breath coming in ragged, terrified hitches. "I need an ambulance. I think it's a stroke."