“What lead?”
“You’re fuckin’ wasted, Patch. We’re not talkin’ about it while you're fucked up.” Before anyone can stop me, I’m off the stool with my hands wrapped around his neck. I slam him against the bar as the guys yell for me to let him go.
“You think I’m too drunk to fuck you up?” I ask him, my head spinning.
“I think you’re takin’ this drinkin’ shit too far,” he tells me.
“Tell me what the lead is.”
“Fuck you.”
“Tell me, Binker! You brought it the fuck up!” I roar in his face.
“I didn’t know you were as drunk as you are. It can wait,” he says as I squeeze his throat harder.
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” I growl. Then I feel it. The stick in the side of my neck. I turn my head, ready to rip someone’s throat out, to see Storm smirking at me with a needle in his hand.
Slowly, my grip on Binker starts to loosen, and I feel fuzzy. I start to slide to the floor when Ban catches me and helps me down.
“Sleep it off, motherfucker,” Storm says as my eyelids flutter. Then there’s nothing but the black darkness.
Chapter 18
Anika
I smile. I’m polite. I help people when they need it. It’s all fake. It feels fake and forced.
I came back to work because Ellie said I needed to get out of the house. Maybe she was right. Maybe not. I can’t say for sure. I don’t really know how I feel right now. There’s a tightness in my chest that never seems to go away. I feel anxious and not like myself.
If I’m being honest, I miss him. I didn’t think I would after what happened, but I do. It’s like a piece of me is missing. I know what he said. He didn’t want a relationship, and I respect that. I’m doing the best I can, though. And keeping him at a distance has to be the right thing. Isn’t it?
I feel the tears burn the back of my eyes, and I quickly walk to the bathroom to wash my face. I splash cold water on my face, trying to stop the tears from falling. I feel like that’s all I’ve done for weeks. Cry. Just cry. And I don’t know what I’m crying for.
I grab the paper towels and wipe my face before tossing them in the trash. I take a look at myself in the mirror and sigh. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to be here. Those people, those me would be out there anywhere. They could be watching me. They could be waiting.
In reality, I know that’s probably not the truth, but that’s the way I feel inside. My stomach cramps, and I rush into the stall before throwing up. This is what my life has come down to.
After cleaning myself up, I walk back out and tell my boss I need to leave. I can’t be here. I can’t plaster on a smile and make it through the day.
I leave work and walk down the block to the park. Maybe some fresh air will do me some good. I doubt that, though. Fear prickles the back of my neck, creeping over my body until I shiver. Are they watching me? Are they out there? I find myself whipping my head around to look for them, but I don’t see anyone. I’m paranoid.
“No one is out there,” I whisper to myself. I try to force myself to enjoy the cool breeze that blows through the trees, but I can’t. And before long, I find myself back at the apartment.
For the most part, I feel like a zombie. A machine that just methodically gets through the days. I’m not living. I don’t feel like I’m alive. And that bothers me.
I walk into the apartment knowing that Ellie isn’t home and probably won’t be for a while. I feel like I’m in a haze. Everything around me seems fuzzy.
Dropping my purse on the chair, I head for my room and sit on the edge of the bed. I rest my head in my hands, contemplating what to do next. I know what I want to do. I know what I shouldn’t do, but there’s this urge inside me. We need to see the end. The need for all the pain and fear to be over with. It’s overwhelming.
I swallow hard and stand from the bed and walk into the bathroom. I find the razor and snap the handle off before pulling the blade free.
Nothing is going to get better. Nothing is going to be the same again. I don’t think I will ever heal from this.
I walk back to the bed and climb on before grabbing my phone. I debate texting Ellie. I debate writing a note. What does a person do in a situation like this? Don’t they leave a note? Tell people how sorry they are that they had to do this? That they love them, and it isn’t their fault. I almost laugh at how ridiculous that sounds.
Ellie would never forgive me. Not even with a note, so what’s the fucking point? She would hate me for what I’m thinking. She would try to talk me out of it. I set the razor blade on the bed and just look at it. So sharp. It would be easy. It wouldn’t take much. And as numb as I feel, I probably wouldn’t even feel it.
But what am I gaining? What is the world gaining? Isn’t that letting them win? Isn’t that giving in to them? They wanted to see me dead. They wanted to see me hurt. And I fucking hurt. It’s a pain so deep that I can hardly stand it. It’s killing me slowly.
