I can still hear his fucking voice saying the wordscharity caselike the awful lyrics to some godforsaken song, one that wormed its way into my brain, playing on a loop until it drives me mad.
My body is burning from the inside out, the rage like a phoenix trying to emerge from the ashes of my disconnected self. Something about that man was so familiar, so terrifying, so infuriating, and it woke up a part of me that has been dormant for what feels like centuries.
It almost has me wondering, though, curious if all those doctors were right, if one day I’d just kind ofwake upand go from surviving to actually living again.
Whatever this is, whether it’s permanent or not, it’s too loud to ignore and the part that’s been quiet for so goddamn long, it’s ready to get out and be loud again.
The part of me that’s been dead and buried for three goddamn years.
Right now, I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t find an outlet.
So, I snatch my phone off the seat, unlock it, set on looking for the angriest, most volatile song I can find but instead, my contacts are open, and I’ve already hitLucky.
Old reflex, a gut reaction.
It’s what I would have done before and without even thinking, I did it right now.
Three rings.
If I had actually put thought into what I’m doing before I acted on impulse, I would have rationalized that Lucky isn’t going to answer. I would have convinced myself that after thirty-five months, he doesn’t even have the same number, or he has likely forgotten about me. Maybe even something like if he does answer, he’ll be so hurt or mad or whatever other justifiable emotion he could feel, that calling him out of the blue would only cause him to tell me to fuck off.
Which I totally deserve.
Fourth ring.
I look at the screen, ready to hang up but stop cold when I hear a voice I never thought I’d hear again. One of the voices I convinced myself I didn’t want to hear again.
“Leo?”
I stare at his name a little longer and blink away the tears.
“Leo... is it you?”
I lift the phone to my ear just in time to hear a stifled cry, almost like the emotions are stuck in his throat and the silence is harder than expected. Something I’m all too familiar with.
“It’s me,” I whisper then pause, still reeling from my encounter with the benefactor from hell, sitting somewhere between wanting to completely unload all of this bullshit on Lucky, but now absolutely terrified because I’m on the phone with anyone other than Justine. “I know I kind of ghosted...” I let out a nervous chuckle, totally out of my element and starting to panic. “For almost three years...”
Nothing.
My anger is fading back to full-blown panic, fear starting to creep in as it threatens to suffocate me.
“I’m coming over.”
Lucky doesn’t give me the opportunity to respond. The call ends before I can, and I’m now staring at my screen again.
Well, shit.
My anxiety skyrockets and I immediately dry heave several times, extinguishing whatever fire Collinsworth had set ablaze while I spiral faster than I have in months. I throw open my door and swing my legs out onto the concrete, sticking my head between my knees while I heave a few more times then stand, pull my bag into the driver seat, and dig for my meds. Popping a couple in my mouth, I swallow them dry then light a cigarette while I wait.
I’m way too nervous to go into my apartment.
I need to know the exact moment Lucky arrives, and if I don’t wait out here, I’ll pace in my crypt until the wood floors give out.
I’m not even sure I’d invite him into my tomb anyway, it’s been three years or more since he’s been there, and it would break his fucking heart to see how I’ve been living. It’s going to be hard enough for him to see what I’ve become.
Lighting another cigarette with the smoldering hot of the one I just sucked down, I flick the butt on the ground and step on it to make sure it’s out. The minutes drag by slowly, each second scoring into my brain as the anticipation of my impending visitor’s arrival eats at me.
Why did I call him?
