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Every time I close my eyes, I see the ichor marring his lilac chucks, the pastel-striped tee smeared in dirt as he was dragged away.

“I know it’s hard, honey. Maybe… Do you think you should start accepting th⁠—”

The barstool smashes into the ground as I wrench myself off it, hobbling away. My leg isn’t in a shitty cast anymore, but the brace isn’t much better. The pain is a welcome distraction; the pain meds shoved in the far corner of the cabinet for a day when I can’t take it anymore.

“Don’t fucking say it. He’s not dead.”

“You don’t kn⁠—”

I whirl on her. “I do, Mom! He’s not fucking dead, because if he was, I would be too.”

Her face crumples, accentuating the fine lines around her eyes. She doesn’t deserve my anger, I know she doesn’t, but I’ve got nowhere else to put it. I stagger back over to her, wrapping her into a hug.

“I just hate seeing you in pain, Sunday.” She sniffles into my chest.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t… I’m really tired.” Lashing out at everyone around me has become my new normal, and I hate myself for it.

“Okay. Okay, do you need me to bring anything down from your bedroom?” she asks, pulling away.

I shake my head. I’ve been trying to sleep on the couch for the most part. I use the term sleep loosely.

After more fussing, and promises that I’ll try to eat later, she eventually makes it out of the door and back into her car, leaving me to wallow.

Only, I can’t.

There’s something I’ve been meaning to do, but every time I’ve thought about it, I just haven’t had the strength to go through with it. Maybe the hollowed-out feeling inside me has become so cavernous that I need to fill it with something, even if that something is agony.

I manage to wiggle my good foot into a checkered slip-on, grabbing the matching fleece jacket off the hook and sliding it on. Getting down the stairs is slow, but not too bad thanks to the handrails.

Being outside feels like I’m in a simulation. The streets are already teeming with gaudy Christmas decorations, lights blinking on and off in vibrant colors. The holiday has never been my favorite, but I feel even more sour about it now.

How can people smile like this? How can they just go about their day when my world has lost all its color?

By the time I get to Bellamy’s apartment, I’m sweating underneath the fleece from the exertion and the throbbing in my leg. Every step makes it pulse, sending my teeth clacking together. I punch in the code, memorized from the meager months we had together.

The elevator is out, because of course it fucking is. I grunt and pull myself up the several flights of stairs, my movements awkward from the brace.

My femur was shattered in two places. The doctors told me I was lucky my femoral artery hadn’t been nicked.

I don’t remember the rest of that night, only waking to find the guilt-ridden face of the fucking vampire. He sensed Bellamy’s distress or something. I don’t know how the vampire thing works, and I don’t give enough of a shit to learn about it.

When I reach Bellamy’s apartment door, my heart threatens to give out. I push forward, awkwardly scooping the key from under the mat and letting myself in.

The feeling of him hits me like a freight train. His scent lingers, clinging to every piece of fabric, blanketing me.

I close my eyes, huffing as waves of emotion cascade over me. I stumble, grabbing the nearest piece of furniture and lowering myself toward the floor before the grief can buckle me completely. It constricts my throat, squeezing the tears out of my eyes.

And as soon as one comes, that’s it.

I break apart, spilling all the hurt out into the room. I can’t catch a breath, curling in on myself as the hole in my chest widens even further. It feels like my ribs are collapsing, the shards slicing into my lungs, my heart.

It hurts so fucking much; I don’t know what to do other than dig the heels of my hands into my eyes and sob.

I cry until there’s nothing at all left, the tears drying on my face and making my beard feel disgusting. I can almost picture Bellamy’s sassy little hip pop as he tells me to take this beaver off my face. A wet laugh bubbles out of me as I turn my head, bracing to roll onto my arm and sit up.

The corner of something wooden catches my eye, my hand already reaching to grab it. I roughly wipe the last rogue tear from my face as I realize what it is. There’s a thin layer of dust coating it, but I know what it is. The alphabet, the symbols. I’ve seen this before.

I shove my hand back under the table, finding the velvet pouch that holds the wooden teardrop shape that goes with it. I slip it out, setting up the board and stretching my injured leg out beside it.