We both look over to where he indicated, and I realize they've been watching us. Someone is shaking their head, another one has a hand to their mouth, another person is crying, and as the haze of rage starts to dissipate, I see that it's Jason's mom. She just buried her son, and here we are, fighting.
Shame and disgust at my actions begin to consume me, filling in whatever space hasn't already been taken up by anger and guilt.
Fuck.
I see the same look reflected on Mase's face when I glance at his bruised and bloody one. But as soon as his gaze lands on me, a scowl forms between his brows.
“You need to let it go, man. Get over the proclaiming-his-innocence thing. Even his parents think he's guilty. That's gotta tell you something.”
Actually, that tells me absolutely nothing seeing as my own parents thought that shit about me when I didn't even do anything. I wasn't even the one who got arrested and went to prison, yet they acted as if I did.
I can feel the blood dripping from my nose, so I swipe a hand across it before pushing to my feet and casting an apologetic look back to Jason's family. I didn't mean to cause any shit here, but as usual, my penchant for reacting without thinking clearly took over, causing the guy who makes bad decisions to take over.
I take a few steps away and then pull my phone out, needing to hear Jaz's calm, sweet voice. When it continues ringing, I hang up and dial again. But it's the same thing. Shit. Spotting my flask on the ground, I scoop it up and then stumble my way through the gravestones, taking myself away from everyone while dialing her once more.
*~*~*~*~*
Everything keeps spinning no matter how hard I try to focus on one of the water stains scattered across my ceiling. I don't know how long I've been lying here. Hell, I don't even know how the fuck I got home. I have the vaguest memory of riding on a bus, so that's probably how. I doubt they'd let me on a plane. Everything else after causing that scene at the funeral is a total blur.
I go to move my hand to cover my face but realize I'm holding a bottle of something, so I lift it to my lips for a drink instead, only to have a bunch of liquid pour down the side of my face and neck when I miss my mouth. I drop the bottle to the side and try to sit up out of the wetness surrounding my head – which smells like bourbon – but I end up falling off the side of the couch onto my stomach with a thud.
I groan but stay in the same position for a full minute before pushing myself to my knees. The room keeps swirling around, nothing remaining in my sights long enough to actually see anything. I can feel my head rocking back and forth with the motion, and it makes me chuckle.
Nothing fucking matters right now. I'mnumb.
I don't feel guilty about Jason.
I don't feel guilty, period.
I don't feel like I'm not good enough.
I don't give a shit about my family or anything.
I do care about Jasmine, though.
Shit.
I haven't talked to her since before the funeral. I should text her that I'm alive. I snicker at the thought just before my phone chimes like she knows I was just thinking about her.
Locating my phone on the floor close by, I attempt to open it up to my messages. But I can't even see the screen, let alone the little buttons, so after the fifth attempt of trying to unlock it, I drop it back to the floor beside me.
Fuck.
I drop my forehead to the armrest of the couch and roll it from side to side before simply rolling my whole body to the side and landing on my back on the floor. It still feels like I'm moving, like I'm floating. I close my eyes, feeling like I could possibly pass out right here, but then a knock sounds throughout my apartment, and my eyes shoot open. Excitement at the fact that Jasmine decided to come to me has me smiling at the ceiling.
I make an effort to push myself up, but it appears I can't anymore, so I just yell out instead. “Come in!” A figure appears above me a moment later, and fuck, I wish I could actually see her face, but she keeps moving in different directions. “You came.”
“You're pretty fucked up, huh?” she guesses.
There are so many of her spinning around the room I can hardly keep track of her.
I am fucked up. But I'm so glad she's here.
“Jaz.” I try to lift my arm to her, but I'm not sure if it moves.
“It's not Jaz,” she replies.
“Sorry,Jasmine,” I say with a chuckle.
