It’s too much, him here, watching me. Listening to me. It’s too fucking much. Sweat drips from my pores, lining my eyebrows and the back of my neck. The lights beaming down on me now feel too bright. By the time I finish the song, I can’t even remember a single part of it. The only thing my brain clings to is the way Josiah is looking at me from across the room. And the way that, as much as I don’t want to, I like having his attention. I always have. And that thought is enough to fuck me up all over again.
20
SEGAN
Eight Years Ago, The Night After Lana’s Funeral
The white powder on my coffee table is chopped into three thin lines, my mouth salivating already at the bitter taste that’s soon to be dripping down the back of my throat. The lines I previously did about an hour ago still have my body pretty numb, but not numb enough.
All the feelings today brought on are coming back, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I don’t need to feel anything.
I don’t want to.
Grabbing the straw I’ve cut in half, I position it over the first line, dipping my head down until I’m able to swiftly snort the first line. I don’t waste any time finishing off the other two either. Licking the pad of my index finger, I run it through the residue left over on the table, bringing my finger up to my mouth, and rubbing it along the inside of my lower lip.
It tastes like shit, but I don’t fucking care.
After stewing and wallowing in my anger all fucking day, I decided now would be the perfect opportunity to go through Lana’s shit and burn it all. There’s no sense in keeping it. It’s not like she’s going to come back and claim any of it.
I need to move out of this fucking house as soon as humanly possible. The thought of living here, sleeping where she slept, makes me want to fucking commit murder. I can’t do it.
There’s a large part of me who knows I should be much more upset than I am. My anger shouldn’t be this severe. But I can’t help it. I don’t feel sadness for her death. I don’t feel the yearning to hug her one last time, feel her lips on mine again.
No. If I got five more minutes with Lana, it would be to strangle her. To kill her all over again. I’ve never felt a red-hot, burning rage like this before. It’s nasty and bitter and deranged. It’s not right. It’s not healthy. And I know that.
I simply just don’t care.
My heavy-lidded eyes flit to the stack of paperwork sitting beside my cocaine mess. The documents that contain the one final blow from Lana. Even from the grave, she’s able to lie to me, to fuck me over. Finding those an hour ago solidified my anger. It solidified my hatred for her, my desire to have never known the bitch.
She never used to be secretive. Not with me.
There was a point in time when we told each other everything.
That, of course, changed as soon as she found her love of heroin. As soon as she tasted the high that could only come from a needle in her vein, nothing was ever the same. Lies became second nature to her. She became a stranger in front of my eyes, until one day I couldn’t even recognize her.
She destroyed her life, and she ruined mine.
A burning rage boils inside of me as I jump to my feet and grab the papers. Ripping them up, I throw them into the lit fireplace before dragging my arm along the mantel, swiping everything on top of it onto the floor. A guttural roar claws its way up my throat, the sound so vicious, it’s foreign to me.
The organ behind my ribcage beats wildly, deafening in my ears. My chest heaves with heavy, painful breaths, and my head swims with the toxic concoction of whiskey and cocaine and fury.
Glancing up, I meet my own reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. Eyes bloodshot and frenzied, with dark bags sitting underneath, I look nearly unrecognizable. I grab the mirror, ripping it off the wall and hurling it across the room. It connects with the wall above the couch, smashing into a million pieces, raining destruction all over the furniture.
I wish I cared.
I wish I could feel anything other than violent anger.
She is such a fucking bitch.
She’s a whore.
A liar.
A fucking good-for-nothing junkie who ruined my fucking life.
I hunch over, my hands on my knees as I fight to drag air into my lungs. They constrict with need. I can’t get them to fill up fast enough.
I can’t breathe.
