Sebastian:Dude, where the fuck are you?
Sebastian:You can’t just disappear off the face of the earth.
Sebastian:And totally uncool what you did to Violet.
Sebastian:She didn’t deserve that and you know it.
My phone vibrateson the bedside table, waking me from my slumber. It buzzes and rings simultaneously. It rotates in one full circle, Mom’s lamp next to it causing a glare and making it difficult to see who’s trying to contact me.
Who the hell is it this time?
After seeing the look of disappointment in Violet’s eyes, I walked out of her apartment without looking back and returned to Harrison Heights. It’s where I belong.
Fact is, someone out there will love her better than me, and when she meets that person, she’ll understand why I left. Why I couldn’t drag her down. She’s not destined to be my support system. I can’t let myself think she is; otherwise, I might actually start believing it. And if there’s one thing I’ve always been adamant about, it’s not wanting to hurt her.
My phone rings again.
I sit up and lean against the wall, finally lifting a hand to retrieve it. An exasperated groan forms inside of me but falls away just as quickly. My body is a vessel of weakness at this point. I haven’t eaten since I got here, and judging by the time on my phone, that was nearly forty hours ago.
Give or take.
I don’t really fucking know.
All I know is that it’s Sunday, according to the date on my phone, and there’s no part of me ready to get up and deal with the world.
I’d rather lie in this bed for another few days in solace. Stare at the bottle of Jack I set on the dresser across from the bed and see how close I get to twisting off the cap and guzzling the amber liquid.
I’ve come close a few times.
Mostly when my chest is so goddamn heavy from grief that it feels like my ribcage is about to crack. In those moments, I get up, sit at the edge of the bed, and waffle my options.
Do I drink, or do I suffer?
It’d be easy to pop the cap off and succumb to the depression and kickstart an addiction of my own. There’re also other options. Like picking up the bottle and smashing it against the wall out of the anger and resentment that chokes me. I can pour the fucker down the drain and find better ways to bargain with my pain. Or I can continue down my current path, whichis sitting on Mom’s bed, replaying memories and wondering if there’s anything I could’ve done differently.
I always come to the same conclusion. I spent too much time worrying about Finn when I should’ve taken better care of her. Maybe I should’ve been more stern with him instead of letting him run my life these last few months. But there’s another side of that, like how I shouldn’t have let my head get caught up with a girl, and instead, should have focused on helping the one person in my life who needed it most.
It’s a vicious cycle, the regret, and because of it, I haven’t gotten much sleep. I’ve deprived myself of the bare necessities. Perhaps from lack of willpower, motivation, or maybe I’m just punishing myself for having to see Mom’s dead body on that hospital bed, a thin sheet covering her sunken cheeks and pale skin.
My stomach twists with sickness as I remember how cold her body was, how lifeless.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. It doesn’t stop the burn that stings them or the wetness that coats my cheeks seconds later. This is the ride I’m on. I break down when I least expect it. When the memories are too much. When it's as if one more breath could destroy me.
My phone stops ringing for all of five seconds before it goes off a third time. I wipe the dampness from my face with the back of my hand and look closer at my phone. Violet’s name takes up a quarter of the screen. Below is my favorite picture of her. She’s sitting on her bed in nothing but purple silk sleep bottoms and a bra, putting socks on. I had just roused her from sleep before heading to the bathroom across the hall, so her hair is messy, but her face is fresh. When I walked back into the room, I couldn’t help but snap a picture because she looked so fucking beautiful. She glanced up to see me with my phone in my handand closed her eyes, shaking her head over how ridiculous it was, a gorgeous grin breaking out on her face.
The call ends and goes to voicemail, effectively stealing Violet from the forefront of my mind. Lucky for me, my inbox is full. I have a notification at the top of my screen that tells me so. I have no desire to empty it or listen to the messages that have been left. I don’t want to hear her voice. I don’t want to cave to what I feel for her, not when I’m at my ugliest, and it’s only going to get worse.
I’ve had this nagging in my gut—call it intuition or paranoia from my lack of sleep—that keeps telling me that this isn’t the main event. I don’t want Violet to be around when more shit hits the fan.
I place my phone back on the nightstand and pick up the cup of water sitting next to random shit Mom has on her nightstand. Tissues, incense, two lighters, a pile of papers with random words scribbled on them. I grab one of the papers and run my finger over her handwriting. It’s a mess and clear that she scrawled it down in a haste. I can’t make out what it says, but it doesn’t matter. Just seeing it makes my heart swell with something I can’t quite name. Love? Emptiness? Despair?
All of it is too fucking debilitating.
Who the hell knew she'd send me on a whirlwind when she finally decided to kick the bucket.
I toss the paper back with the rest of them. A moment later, a ruckus sounds from somewhere else in the house. I can’t pinpoint where it comes from but know it’s not normal. I’m pissed I have to get up to figure out what it is.
My body is a bag of bricks as I pad across Mom’s bedroom floor, the carpet long since worn and offering zero comfort to the heels of my feet. The morning sun is nearly blinding in the kitchen, streaming in through the window above the sink and the one in the living room.
