I grab the bottle and down half at once, hoping to dull this pain in my heart that doesn’t let me breathe. But the pain is in there; it’s still there. I drink more, but it doesn’t work. It’s fucking there, eating me on the inside. I drink more, feeling nothing.
I try to rise to my feet, but it works only after a few attempts.
But I have another solution for the pain devouring me. I walk to the kitchen and grab my gun from the top of the cabinet. It’s loaded; I don’t know why I keep it there, but I do.
I’m lying. I know why it’s there.
I walk back to the couch with a bottle in one hand and the gun in the other, but I stumble over my two feet and end up kneeling on the floor by the couch. Hysterical laughter bubbles in my chest, and I can’t stop. Tears stream down my face, and I lean against the front of the couch so I don’t fall. My sides hurt, but I can’t stop laughing. All these years of pent-up self-hatred are coming through. I wipe my face and down a chug of bourbon.
The pain doesn’t go away. It intensifies.
I slightly pat the barrel, enjoying the coolness of the metal. The quiet of it. The promise of forgiveness.
It can take me to a place where pain doesn’t exist anymore.
I take another sip, and suddenly the liquid burns. So I drink more, enjoying this type of physical pain. I’ll gladly take it over the mental fuck I’m having right now. Physical pain is familiar, that’s how I get rid of the guilt.
I drink more, and it burns hotter.
I grab the phone and dial her number, not even knowing what to say if she picks up. I just want to hear her voice.
But the call goes straight to voicemail. She might have turned it off because she thinks I’m a cheating asshole and hates me. I’m about to disconnect the call, but then her sweet voice tells me to leave her a message, and I’m mesmerized by it. I realize how much I’ve missed her, so I talk. Well, I mumble nonsense, and when I comprehend that I spoke too much, I hang up.Shit, why did I tell her all of that?
And then I start hating myself, remembering the look on Leila’s face when she learned about the pain. It only took her a second to figure out why I do that, and I’m fuckin’ ashamed of it now. I smack the bottle on the floor next to me and lean my back on the couch.
Did I really think I could have something with her? Would I really do that to her? I can only drag people down. The article said I’m not a villain, but I don’t know how not to be one. I’ve been living in this cycle for so long, I forgot other ways existed. And I can’t offer her anything but my fuckin’ money. Nothing else. I’m a shell of a person I once was.
Who am I kidding? I’ve always been like that. When my father took me to live with him, the damage was fuckin’ done, and I’m no good for society anymore.
I’m not good for her.
I pick up the bottle and down the rest of the liquor. It burns good. Then I take the gun. My thumb strokes the safety lever. My heartbeat finally slows down, agreeing with the decision. I have a will—everyone I care about will be taken care of.
I raise it—
Chapter Twenty-Five
LEILA
Three hours ago
My tears have dried out by now. There weren’t many to begin with because I didn’t let myself cry. We ended our arrangement, and I can’t hold him responsible for wanting a life for himself. If I caught feelings, that’s my problem, not his. He’s not responsible for me or my imagination.
Does it hurt? Hell yes. Hurts so much I can’t breathe. It’s hard to focus on the road as my mind keeps replaying the picture I saw. My chest feels tight, and I can’t take a full lungful of air. My shaking hands grip the wheel with all my might—which is not a lot.
Would I change hand-delivering the gazette to him, knowing he’d moved on? Absolutely not. I wanted him to get it from me. This article is a big invasion of his privacy—dirty laundry about to be aired for the world to see, but it was needed. I chose the lesser of two evils because he refused to talk about it. I’m still shocked Alex agreed to give the interview, but I’m very grateful for it.
I’m thinking of pulling over somewhere just so the level of adrenaline in my body subsides and I can stop shaking. Once I pull into a gas station and park, I go to check my phone. But it’s dead. Dang it! I forgot to charge it, and it died.
What if he called?
What would I do? I don’t know how I would react and what I would say. If there is even anything that needs to be said. Maybe he wanted to talk about the article? Oh crap, he needed me in such a difficult moment, and I wasn’t available.
I plug the phone in and will it to start turning on faster. I have a new voicemail. From him. I’m about to click it when my phone starts ringing. Unknown number. I so don’t need a call right now about how to lower my monthly electric bill or hear a creepy person’s breathing in my ear like a couple calls from the last week, so I send it straight to voicemail, but the same number starts ringing again. Could it be something important? The area code is from Massachusetts. I hit accept and put it on speaker.
“Oh gosh, thank fuck you picked up!”A feminine, sultry voice fills the car.
“Who is this?”
