Morgan is dead.
Barry is dead.
The Chief is dead.
I’d craved for their lives to end early, when really, they’re the ones winning. They don’t have to deal with all of this anymore.
Now what I’d do to take it all back, so thathewasn’t dead.
The love of my life, the man I’ve been sickeningly infatuated with since an age I couldn’t comprehend my feelings. Gone.
And for what, so I could live?
This isn’t a life I want, a mindless existence whilst the hole in my chest grows wider by the minute, where hours span into days staring at the same walls. Ones he once stood within.
The pain of losing him forever leaves me hopeless. I don’t want a future; I don’t even want to see another day go by where he’s not in my life.
I can’t breathe, can’t eat, can’t speak.
I’m slowly dying inside, willing anything along the way to speed up the process.
The wind whips in my hair around the roof of the Pit as I stare down at the whiskey bottle and his cell phone. I found it in his jacket pocket, and I haven’t gotten the strength to check it until now.
My hand wraps around the bottle, unscrewing the lid and deciding to just throw it off the side of the roof. It’s serene up here, but my eyes don’t dare glance upwards.
Not when the only place I’ll be heading is downwards. Right to the pits of hell.
A smile teases the corners; maybe my devil will claim me upon arrival.
Besides, the sky lost its appeal when the stars were snatched from the night. When my favourite stars of all finally burned out and slowly bled to black.
Saint’s body hitting the back of the trunk plays in my mind like a vicious broken tape. I hear it when everything goes quiet: the crack of the bullet, the pain in his grunt, the thud of his body hitting the back.
He was already struggling from the stab wounds, and then George put two bullets in him as soon as his vest was off.
Fucking coward.
I laugh pitifully into the chill night air. Isn’t that what I am? Instead of hunting them down and bringing them to justice, I’m not. I’m giving up the fight, frightened in case I fail him.
No, I’m not scared. I’m just tired.
So fucking tired.
Tired of being heartbroken, losing the ones I love most in this world.
They won. I lost. I losteverything.
The Montgomerys have taken and taken from me. They can’t have anything else.
There’s nothing else to give.
My hand wraps around the cell phone, trembling thumb sliding upwards, and the self-torture begins. Alcohol passes my lips for the first time in six years, the taste bitter on my tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the poison rotting me from the inside out.
I open his picture album, and the breath is knocked out of me.
Images stored from all our time spent together, but there’s a jump in years between when we were first together, until recently.
He didn’t take a single picture during our time apart.
