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Punch it.
Bellow obscenity after obscenity.
Then I stalk to the cabinet, swiping my arms across the surface on a yell, sending the glasses and bottles crashing to the floor. I yank the mini-fridge open and grab a bottle of water, glugging it back manically. I toss it aside when I’m done, immediately grabbing another and downing it. Then another. Then another. I keep going, drinking water like it can cleanse me of the alcohol and my sins, bottle after bottle. My stomach eventually revolts, and I grab a bin, throwing up into it, coughing, spluttering, and retching.
I’m done.
But I’m not done.
I take hold of the cabinet at one end and drag the solid piece across my office, blocking the door, barricading myself in. Stopping me from leaving. And anyone from coming in.
Then I fall to my knees, my eyes welling with hopeless tears.
I can’t escape. I can’t be free of this self-sabotage. I’m my own worst enemy. A failure. The deadliest kind of poison. Out of my mind in all ways.
And hopelessly in love with a woman I can never have.
Or deserve.
“Why did I fucking live and they all died?” I roar, consumed by self-hatred.
Why? I should be dead. Not them.Not. Them.
Because I’m a fuck-up, just as my dad has always said. A total, unsavable fuck-up.
That thought has me sifting through the bottles on the floor to find some more vodka.
I just need this all to end.
18
What have I done?How could I? What will my punishment be for that mistake? Can I redeem myself?
Questions run amok in my mind, one after the other, all questions with answers I can’t face.
John has come and gone. Sam and Drew have come and gone. Sarah followed me back after I released myself to use the toilet. All have stood on the other side of that door trying to force it open, calling out to me. I text them all. Told them I’m fine.
I’m far from fine. I’m a wreck. Plagued by guilt. Haunted by shame.
But while I’m suffering, at least Ava isn’t.Especially clear given she hasn’t text once.
I drag myself onto the couch, pulling my phone off charge. Saturday. I’ve been festering in here for days. I finished every drop of vodka I had for the first two days. Safe. Barricaded in my office to be numb, with no risk of more meaningless fucking, dropping off to sleep now and then, but only for an hour or two before my nightmares woke me. Then the vodka ran dry. And all that was left for the past two days was a hangover, regret, and memories of the brief time in my life when grief and guilt didn’t rule it. The hangover has passed, but I still feel like death. It’s the first time ever alcohol isn’t responsible.
I toss my phone aside and scrub my hands down my face, feeling my overgrown stubble scratching my palms. Every one of my muscles feels tight. I gingerly stand, cringing through the discomfort, stretching. I smell like death too, my shirt crumpled and stale. I need a shower. Maybe ten.
I look at the door, at the cabinet blocking it. Each time I’ve been forced to move it so I can use the toilet, it’s become heavier and heavier. I’m desperate for a piss now. But, again, scared to leave. Not because I’m afraid of what I might do or who might be out there, but because leaving means facing my reality. A reality without Ava.
A reality where I put my dick in two other women. A reality where I might go straight to the bar to drown my misery.
I sigh and go to the cabinet, taking the edge and engaging my body to pull it away. It doesn’t budge, not an inch, and I’m quickly out of breath trying to make it. “Fucking hell,” I murmur, flopping back against the wall, feeling weak.
The sound of something hitting the window pulls my attention to it, and I find Sam’s face squished up against the pane, his eyes searching inside my office. My usually cheerful mate looks worried, and when he eventually finds me slumped by the door, he shakes his head. I drag my tired body across the room and open the window, exhausted, my hands falling to the ledge to hold me up. “Hey.” My voice sounds strained, my throat sore.
“Mate,” he says on a sigh, his worried eyes running up and down my bedraggled form. “What on earth?”
I close my eyes, inhaling, trying to soothe my straining lungs. Even breathing hurts. “I don’t want to go back to this shit, Sam,” I say to my darkness, unable to face him. “Ican’tgo back to this shit.” I’ll be dead before I’m forty, and now I’ve had a taste of heaven, I feel like I’m eternally screwed. I can’t survive this hell.
“Then don’t go back,” he says, as if it’s that simple, and I look up at him. He smiles mildly. “Don’t go back, Jesse.”
