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Out of the corner of my eye, I see the blonde standing in the doorway, tears streaking down her face with a frown as she stares at me. She wants me to leave, I can tell. She’d rather I wasn’t in her life at all, and I’m more than happy to satisfy her wishes.
“Sorry to ruin your birthday, brat,” I mutter before disappearing through the front door.
* * *
The rest of the day I’m numb and I feel like I’m silently sinking into mud.
I go to my apartment. I drink a little more. I replay everything that happened, letting the harshness of their looks dig a little deeper each time.
Replaying today funnels into replaying last night, then the last week, then the last month, until I realize that my life is shit. My job is shit. My friends are shit, and every good feeling I had when I woke up today is stained black.
When eight o’clock rolls around, I don’t leave for work like I’m supposed to. I don’t even call in. They don’t need me there. They probably don’t even want me there.
I dig out an old bottle of benzos from the back of my closet, because I just need it to quiet the voices. I haven’t taken them in years, but I haven’t had a real attack since high school either. But I remember liking the way they drowned out the noise and I’m just thinking that it will help me sleep. Maybe two will help take the edge off. Maybe three will make the vodka hit a little harder.
Before I know it, I’m in a bad-decision spiral, and the rest is an accident. It really is. They’ll say it wasn't an accident, but it was. Because I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live like this anymore.
RULE #34: QUITTING IS NOT AN OPTION.
Garrett
Idon’t know what time it was when my phone died, but when I wake up the next morning, the screen is black, so I toss it across the room. It doesn’t matter; she’s not calling, and I’m pretty sure the incessant banging sound in the distance isn’t from my phone anyway.
“Garrett, open up or I’m calling 9-1-1.”
Emerson? What the fuck?
“I’m coming…” I groan as I roll out of bed. When my feet hit the floor, the room tilts a little and I stumble. Probably more from the fifth of vodka I put away last night and not an actual trick of physics.
He bangs again.
“I’m coming!” I yell. I look like shit, smell like shit, and feel like shit, but it’s a little late to fix it now. Emerson Grant is about to unhinge my front door.
When I pull it open, he stares at me, nostrils flared and panic in his eyes. “Jesus,” he mutters.
“Good morning to you too,” I reply. I must look better than I thought.
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
I reply with a shrug while he stands on the welcome mat, just looking at me, probably wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to say now. So, I start for him, since I assume he’s here to see why I haven’t come into the club all week.
“Sorry, I haven’t been in…just feeling under the weather.”
He glances down at my clothes and then into my apartment. I squeeze the door closed a little to keep him from seeing the mess I’m hiding behind me.
“You’re sick?” he asks.
“Yeah. Must have caught something,” I lie.
“Huh,” he replies, pulling his phone out of his pocket, “is that why you sent me these messages last night?”
When he holds up his phone, I wince, my text messages from last night staring back at me.
I quit.
I’m sorry.
I’ll sell you my portion of the company.
