Night of Denial

Home : Stories by Catw00man : Dark Nights Series : Night of Denial

Summary: Jeff has come to some realizations he can’t deal with.

AUTHOR: Catw00man
EMAIL: catw00man@cryptoffic.com
RATING: R
SERIES: Dark Nights Series
CHARACTER: Jeff Gordon POV
CATEGORY: Serious Angst, Very Dark Themes
COMPLETED: November 24, 2004
WORD COUNT: 6,912
DISCLAIMER: I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
DEDICATION: To Marilyn for asking for more Dark Nights. You rock hon!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the 5th story in my Dark Nights Series and we have definitely reached the point now where you need have read the previous fics for this to make any sense. You can find the other fics in this series here. Also, as I’ve been warning you guys for awhile, this is getting darker. If you can’t/don’t want to read about suicidal thoughts and self-destruction, this might not be the fic for you. And as always, if you like it let me know. This part actually was done by request.
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Charlotte Condo: June 4th, 2002

I can’t believe he came to New York.

Ok that’s not completely true, I think as I take another drag off of the burning cigarette in my hand. I did give him a blanket invite. Hell, I even gave him a key one night when we were out on the town. I just never expected him to show up when I was in the middle of a fucking bender.

I shake my head at the memory and knock back another hit of whiskey from the bottle in my hand, grimacing as the burning liquid slides down my throat. I honestly thought him being there was a dream at first. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve dreamed of him. But when I finally did wake up I knew immediately something was “off” when I realized I was on my bed, considering when I do get that blitzed I’m usually too drunk to stumble to my room. But it still didn’t hit me at first. It wasn’t until I opened my bleary eyes, my head pounding from too much tequila, and looked over to the nightstand that I knew it wasn’t a dream. The glass of water and aspirin sitting there mocking me was proof of that.

I couldn’t even bear to face him at first and I stalled in my room as long as I could, taking a long hot shower to try and ease my aching head. But it didn’t help. The steaming spray of water against my skin did nothing for the pain in my head or the storm raging inside. It couldn’t touch the fact that Jimmie was there and found me passed out…again.

I shake my head at the memories and light another cigarette from the end of the last before flicking the butt away on the porch of my new Charlotte condo. I lean back in my chair, taking another long drink from the bottle in my lap and my thoughts drift away as I remember that morning in New York.

*****

My head feels like there’s a marching band pounding away as I make my way slowly down the hall, no longer able to delay the inevitable. I can’t believe he showed up here last night. I can’t believe he saw me that way, and I sure as hell can’t believe he took care of me. Why did he even bother? Is he even still here?

I feel my chest tighten at that last thought because I don’t know which is worse…him still being here and having to face him, or him leaving without a word. I shake my head at these thoughts and immediately wish I hadn’t as it feels like someone just drove an ice pick through the side of my skull. Fucking cheap tequila. What I’d give for a Bloody Mary about now to try and dull the pain…but that’s not going to happen, especially if he is still here.

As I pass the spare bedroom, which is slightly open, I pause to glance inside. He’s not there, and it doesn’t look like anyone slept there last night. Shit. He probably left, and why shouldn’t he? Why would he want to stay and hang around a pathetic drunk like me? Why couldn’t he have stayed in Charlotte? Why couldn’t he have waited to see me at the shop or the track where I manage to look like I still have it all pulled together. Has he noticed, I wonder? Is that why he’s here?

I shake my head again, more slowly this time. He couldn’t know. I’ve been too careful. I don’t drink or smoke at the track. Surely, he still has no idea…or he didn’t before last night.

Shit. I’m such an idiot.

As I reach the end of the hall, I pause before entering the living room to take a deep breath and try to compose myself…just in case he’s still here. I slowly step into the room and immediately raise my hand to shade my eyes as I squint against the bright rays of sun coming through the sliding door to the balcony. Damn, why didn’t I close the curtains?

I start to cross the room to shut out the bright sun, and instead end up stopping dead in my tracks in the middle of the room. He’s still here. I freeze as I see him curled up on the same couch I was earlier, his arms wrapped around the pillow I probably passed out on. As I take in his long form on the couch that is really too small for him I have to wonder why he slept out here. Why didn’t he sleep in the spare bedroom? That can’t have been comfortable for him.

As I study him a moment longer it suddenly hits me how sweet and innocent and peaceful he looks in his sleep, and for some reason the thought crosses my mind that I doubt I ever look the same way. Will I ever find that kind of peace again? What happened to me?

I take another long look at him lost to peaceful dreams and hope that he won’t wake up sore from sleeping on the couch. Then I silently make my way across the room to the kitchen. I should do something for him. He took care of me when he didn’t have to. He stayed when he didn’t have to. The least I can do is make him breakfast or something.

I walk into the kitchen, lost in my thoughts, and for the second time am stopped in my tracks. The kitchen is spotless. He didn’t have to do this. He didn’t have to do anything. Why on earth would he do all this for me?

I drop my head, unable for the moment to look on the evidence of his kindness and realize why he did it. That’s him. That’s Jimmie. He does things for people--I’ve seen it more than once. He cares about people…was I ever that way? That’s why he stayed. He wanted to make sure I was all right. He would do the same for anyone. How the hell did I get lucky enough to even know him, much less become someone he cares about and counts as a friend?

I move over to the refrigerator, determined to do something for him and pull open the door revealing the almost empty contents. I curse as I realize I have practically nothing to make for him. Food hasn’t exactly been my top priority of late so I really haven’t been much for grocery shopping…for food anyway. I rummage though the refrigerator and am surprised to find eggs and some cheese. When the hell did I buy eggs? I pull them out and figure I can at least make him some scrambled eggs. That’s better than nothing, right?

I take the eggs and cheese slices over to the counter and pull a bowl from the cabinet and start cracking the eggs into it as my mind starts to wander again. So what happens now? What happens when he finally does wake up? Will he let me pretend nothing happened like the last time he found me this way? Knowing Jimmie, I tend to doubt it. He always wants to “fix” things. How do I explain to him that, with me, there’s nothing to “fix?”

I still can’t believe the way he looks at me like I’m something special, someone to be looked up to. But I’m sure that’s all going to change now. How can he possibly look at me the same way again, now that he knows who I really am…that I’m nothing but a pathetic loser who happens to be good at driving a racecar? To be honest I’m not even doing that very well anymore.

I know what we tell the media--that we gave all of my cars to Jimmie and built new ones. Most of those media idiots seem to think that’s why he’s doing so well--that it’s all the cars. But those fools don’t have a clue. How can everyone not see how amazing he is? He took the pole at Daytona. He’s already won a race! He’s just a rookie. You don’t win a race in this series with just a good car. That boy can drive, and it’s about time people took notice.

But I, on the other hand, can’t even seem to be able to help Robbie set up the cars anymore. It’s definitely not going to be another seven-win season--that’s for sure, and part of me doesn’t even seem to care. Oh, I still want to win. I still want to race. But, I’ve already found out that no matter how much I win, it doesn’t make a difference. Last year was proof of that. That excitement I used to have, that thirst for the victory, that I see so clearly reflected in Jimmie’s eyes, just seems to have drained out of me. I can barely even remember what it felt like. How on earth did I get this far?

I reach over to grab a fork from the drawer next to me to mix the eggs, and curse when I look down and see that I’ve gotten shells in the bowl. Why can’t I seem to do anything right? I sigh, and begin picking out the little pieces of shells, flicking them in the sink behind me. Then I grab the salt and pepper on the counter, considering it’s basically all I have to season the eggs with, adding some of each and begin scrambling the eggs.

Racing. That used to be my entire world. That’s what I was groomed for, what I was made for, and nothing used to be more important. Nothing mattered more than winning championships and races. It was my whole life from as far back as I can remember, but what does that leave me with now? A bunch of trophies and more money than I can spend--that should make me happy right? But what if I wasn’t here tomorrow? What have I ever done that really mattered? I couldn’t even make my sham of a marriage work. And family? I never had time for a family. I was too busy winning…

I let out a long sigh as I lean down, ignoring the blinding pain that shoots through my head, and pull out a pan from the cabinet at my feet. Then I set it on the stove and turn on a burner before pouring the frothy egg mixture into the pan. I let the eggs cook for a moment and then start tearing apart the cheese slices and dropping them into the pan. I watch as the orange strips begin to melt into the yellow of the eggs and reach for a spatula to scramble the mix some more. I get so lost in my task I don’t even feel him come into the room at first.

Finally I notice him and slowly turn to face him, but the instant our eyes meet it’s as if the world stops and I don’t even feel the spatula slip from my fingers and clatter to the floor.

*****

I expected to see so many things in his eyes that day, but none of my imaginings prepared me for what I saw in those swirling brown depths. I expected to see pity, disappointment, maybe even annoyance…but none of those things were there. I couldn’t find an ounce of anger or irritation in his tired brown eyes that morning and I’ve seen none since.

I take a long drag of the burning cigarette in my hand and let it drop to the ground, crushing it under my shoe as I savor the burning feeling in my lungs. I close my eyes, leaning my head back as I exhale a long stream of smoke and finally remember what I did see in his eyes.

Compassion. Understanding. Desire. And maybe even…

I shake my head, as I can’t even begin to go there. Not now and probably not ever. But, it was obvious the way he felt. He hid nothing as he looked at me, the morning sun all around him as his eyes reflected the light streaming through the window making them look a soft shade of amber. He didn’t even try to cover it. He didn’t even look away as my eyes met his. He just let me see everything, opening himself up to me completely with only a look.

I was completely stunned at first. I had to force myself to look away under the pretense of trying not to burn our breakfast and I was sure when I looked back it would all be gone. But it wasn’t. He hasn’t hidden it since. And I don’t know how to deal with it.

Thinking about it now, it shouldn’t have come as a complete surprise. I had caught him looking at me before when he thought I didn’t see. But just as soon as he realized I saw him he would look away, hiding the emotion in his eyes.

I never thought anything about it.

I just assumed it was a passing thing. I thought it was because we spend so much time together every weekend. I thought that, at the most maybe, somehow he found me attractive. Not like anything would ever come of it. He had a girlfriend. We were just friends. Friends who had a lot in common. Friends who raced together and partied together and should have been sick of spending so much time together. But his eyes tell me it’s so much more…and that it has been for a long time.

I reach again for the bottle in my lap, taking another drink and relaxing a little as I feel the warm haze cloud my mind. I’m getting entirely too dependent on this. But what else can I do? I don’t know how else to deal anymore, and I’ll be damned if I take Jimmie down with me. He’s deluded. He obviously thinks he sees something in me that doesn’t even exist. Why else would he all but tell me he wanted me that day in New York? He doesn’t know what he wants. He couldn’t.

I shake my head as I reach for another cigarette, and think again about his dark eyes and the unspoken emotions I see in them every time he looks at me, and my thoughts drift again, this time to a place I normally forbid them to go. Not to the kindness he showed me in New York. Not to his unspoken desires and emotions. But to him. To Jimmie.

It’s not like I hadn’t ever noticed him. I noticed him all the time. I noticed the way his firesuit hangs off his long lean frame, how it moves against him as he strides through the garage, how long and slender his fingers are as he tells me about his car motioning with his hands the same way I do. I’ve noticed the way his eyes sparkle with happiness when he laughs and how they seem to darken when he’s serious, and I’ve wondered more than once how they would look filled with desire. But these are all just idle fantasies. They aren’t real.

Part of me is sure they could be though--real, that is. I found out a lot about myself when I first started coming to New York, once I got away from her. I found out when I was looking to drown my sorrows in the warmth of others that I could find pleasure with a man as well as a woman. And to be perfectly honest, Jimmie is just my type. Tall and slender with deep dark eyes you could lose yourself in forever. I’ve dreamt about doing that. I’ve dreamt of how his skin would feel against mine. How he would taste as I ran my tongue along his jaw and kissed his lips. What those long and slender fingers would feel like on my body. But never in a million years did I ever seriously consider it.

He means too much to me. He is the brightest spot in my entire existence. He is the only thing that keeps me even remotely sane. How could I ever chance losing that? Oh, his eyes have told the tale to me these last weeks. How all I would have to do is make a move and he would be mine warm, willing, and able. But I won’t do that. I’ll never do that. I can’t, because I can’t take the chance of putting out that light that shines so brightly inside him. And I know I would.

I could never give him what he wants, what he needs. He wants love. He wants everything. I can see it so clearly. I could feel it two days ago when I went to congratulate him in victory lane for the second time this season, and he pressed himself up against me, holding me longer than he should have. As I finally pulled away from his embrace and stared into those shining eyes darkening even in the light of the sun he looked like he wanted to tell me something and I had to turn away. I just had to. I can’t let him tell me the things he so desperately seems to want to. That’s why I’ve been avoiding him since New York…and it’s about to kill me.

I stretch in my chair and look out into the dark Charlotte night and can’t get the image of his eyes out of my head. The looks of longing, the looks of concern and the looks of hurt as I’ve done everything in my power to make sure we haven’t been alone together since that morning. I can’t stand to see the hurt in his eyes. I swear it cuts me right down to the bone and I want nothing more than to take that pain away. But how can I do that? How can I give him what he wants when it will only destroy him in the end? I don’t have what he needs. I probably never will. And giving in to him now would only spell the beginning of the end for us. At least this way I still have him on some level…no matter how painful it might be.

I flick another cigarette onto the patio of my condo and sigh as I realize I’m going to have to clean up this mess tomorrow. But right now I honestly don’t care. I don’t care about anything but trying to find a way to get myself out of this situation that has gone too far already. He was just supposed to be a teammate, a friend. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about him and he sure as hell shouldn’t be having them about me. I sigh again and reach for the bottle in my lap but stop before I can take a drink as I feel my cell phone buzzing in my pocket. I set the bottle down and reach into the front pocket of my jeans and look to the blue of the display as the phone vibrates in my hand.

It’s him.

Again.

I stare at the phone another long moment, thinking about answering it this time, thinking about how much I want to hear his voice on the other end. But I can’t. Instead I just watch the phone in my hand, blinking and buzzing until it finally goes silent and slip it back in my pocket before reaching again for the bottle of whiskey at my feet.

How many times has he called? I’ve completely lost count, I think, as I take another drink of the burning alcohol. He has to know by now that I’ve found a place in Charlotte, even though I’ve still yet to tell him where. How long can I keep this up before he forces a confrontation? I can’t hide from him forever. I know that. But maybe if I wait just a little longer, he’ll get over this fascination he seems to have with me. He’ll get over these feelings he seems to have and we can go back to the way things were before he knew about my dirty little habits.

Bullshit.

I know that’s all bullshit. He’s not going to let this go. I know him too well for that. It was all I could do to get him out of that New York apartment without having a heart to heart. He wants to talk. He wants to know why I do what I do and he wants to tell me what he’s feeling. It’s all written there in his beautiful, dark, expressive eyes. But I can’t let him. How the hell will we ever be able to take it all back once everything is said?

“Dammit,” I whisper under my breath, as I stare out into the night sky and let my mind wander again to even more troublesome thoughts. What if I gave in? What if I finally let him in? Could I even do that? What would happen if I stopped running and let him have what he wants…what we both want? Surely it would be amazing.

I close my eyes and think again about how his would look, darkened with need and want. How it would sound to hear my name on his lips, voice raw with need. I shift back in the chair running my tongue over my lips as I imagine his dark eyes boring into me telling me he wants me without words. I imagine the feel of his lips against mine, his tongue pushing its way into my mouth and the intoxicating taste that must be him. I can almost feel his hands moving over my body as I run mine over his rich skin, losing myself to his warmth and my desire. I can taste the salty skin of his neck as I run my tongue along his jaw line and place wet kisses over the base of his throat sliding my hands lower at the same time, reaching, touching, wanting. I imagine pulling at the waistband of his jeans, unfastening them as I….

The buzzing sound of my phone, vibrating against my leg again rips me from my pleasant thoughts and I quickly fumble for the cell. I pull it out of my pocket and instantly see that it’s him…again. “Shit,” I curse, as I realize what I was thinking and stare dumbly at the phone again. Then I push the power button, shutting it off this time before tossing it on the ground next to me, unwilling to hold it any longer. He was calling me again. He was calling me while I was thinking about….

I shake my head violently, causing the world to spin in my drunken state as I try to push away those thoughts and my still burning desire. I grip the bottle tighter in my hand and take a long drink, coughing as I try to choke it down. I can’t do this. I can’t think of him this way. He doesn’t know me. If I let him in I would only end up destroying everything wonderful and special that makes him, him. I would drain him dry with my inner demons and we would be left with nothing but an empty shell of a relationship…just like it was with her.

Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with the memory of her cold dark eyes as we sat in front of lawyers, dividing our life together as if it was nothing. I remember the hatred and resentment and loathing she shot me with her glare, and the complete emptiness I felt inside. But suddenly it’s not her in my mind’s eye anymore. It’s Jimmie. Jimmie, hating me for what I am and what I’ve done to him. Jimmie, detesting the sight of me as he glares and coldly tells me I’m nothing and turns and walks away.

“No. No, no, no,” I mumble to myself as I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and shake my head against the images I can’t get out of my spinning mind. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him hate me. I can’t bear to have him look at me that way. And he will. If I let him in, that’s what will happen. Just like it did with her. I would destroy him and I can’t. “I WON’T!” I cry out suddenly as I hurl the bottle in my hands at the nearby brick wall of the porch, and flinch as I hear the shattering of glass all around me.

I feel myself grow even colder inside at the sound, as all emotion finally drains from me and I stare almost unseeing at the amber liquid running down the wall in tiny rivulets making small pools on the concrete patio. Amber. Just like his eyes in the sunlight.

No. I shake my head again, slowly this time, as I bring my hand up to cover my eyes. I have to stop thinking about this. I have to find a way out of this. I have to stop thinking about him. Wanting him, needing him, seeing his emotion-filled eyes everywhere I look. I have to make this all stop. I have to find a way to get these thoughts and feelings out of my head if only for a little while. I have to clean up this fucking mess, I realize, as I finally open my eyes, and see the broken bits of glass around me glinting in the moonlight.

Shattered.

Just like my life.

I desperately try to focus on the mess around me, attempting in vain to push the ever-present thoughts that haunt me to the back of my mind just for the moment. I look down and lightly brush a few pieces of glass from my lap that I didn’t even notice had fallen on me as lost as I was in my despair. Then I sigh and lean over, reaching for some of the larger pieces of glass, but curse and yank my hand back sharply as, in my fumbling, I cut the palm of my hand.

I hiss at the sudden pain and roughly shake my hand, watching as a few tiny drops of scarlet pepper the patio in front of me. I stare at the specks of crimson for a moment, then press the heel of my hand to my lips, tasting my own blood as I suck at the small cut. Then I pull my hand away and look down, seeing that it’s only a tiny cut that’s barely still bleeding. I shake my head at my stupidity and look down again, and my find my eyes are drawn to the large, triangular-shaped piece of glass, stained deep red with my blood.

I lean over, picking the sharp piece of thick glass up and turning it, seeing how the red almost glistens on the transparent material in the faint moonlight. I find myself drawn to the sharp edge of the glass, as I touch it lightly with my thumb, running it along the rough surface feeling my thoughts take a familiar dark turn.

I stare intently at the stained glass and turn it over in my hand concentrating on nothing but the object in front of me. Part of me wonders what it would be like to take the sharp bit of glass and slice it across my throat ending this seemingly endless torment of an existence I call my life. What would it feel like I wonder. Would I feel the pain of the glass tearing through my skin? Would it hurt to bleed? How long would it take before I passed out from blood loss? Would I know it was over or would I just fade away?

I focus my eyes again and realize I’ve got the tip of the glass pressing against my forearm. Would it hurt, I can’t help but wonder again. Would it hurt if I were expecting it? Finally all these months of contemplation have left me no choice. I have to know, I think, as I press the sharp edge a little harder against my skin. I have to know what happens….

I don’t tear my eyes away as I slowly drag the glass along my arm leaving a three-inch cut in its wake. It’s shallow, barely more than a scratch, but I watch as the scarlet blood wells up along the thin line as I let the glass slip from my fingers to hit the ground with a soft clinking sound. I can’t look away as the crimson stain grows, the line becoming wider until it finally breaks and a thin stream of blood runs down my arm…and I don’t feel a thing.

I feel no pain at all from the cut on my arm. I feel nothing as the blood wells up and slides across my skin. I feel nothing but a strange, peaceful calm that overcame me the instant I first broke the skin with the jagged piece of glass. My mind is completely quiet for the first time in ages and I continue to stare as one drop of blood finally falls from my arm and onto the concrete below.

The bleeding is already stopping, I realize, as it begins to dry on my skin where it ran across my arm. I reach out my hand to touch the sticky, crimson fluid and in that instant realize what I’m doing. I sit up sharply shaking myself from the dark stupor I had fallen into and look down again at my arm and the thin cut across my skin. What the hell was I thinking?

I grab the bottom of my shirt, pulling it up so I can wipe away the drying blood and get a better look at what I’ve done. I only end up smearing it, so I bring my hand to my lips wetting my thumb so that I can try and clean off the mess I’ve made of my arm. Finally I get the blood washed away and I can see the angry jagged red line contrasting sharply against my skin, and I shake my head. I really need to stop drinking.

I push myself up and stumble over to the back door, intent on finding something to properly wash out the cut and clean the wound. But as I reach for the door handle I freeze for a moment when I remember the complete and total peace that came over me after I sliced open my arm. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I didn’t hurt.

I glance back across the porch at the glass still littering the ground and am almost scared for a moment. Why did I like that so much? What the hell has happened to me? Have I completely lost my mind?

I shake my head again and finally walk inside. I’ve done enough thinking for tonight, obviously. I just need to sleep. Maybe everything will be better tomorrow. Maybe I can wake up and the last year and a half can be a horrible nightmare. I know I’m deluding myself as I make my way down the hall to my room. But right now I can’t seem to care.

I weave a bit as I finally step into my room and cross through the dark shadows cast by the moonlight streaming through the window. I step into my bathroom, flipping on the light and squinting against the harsh fluorescent glare. I need to see if I have anything to clean up this mess I’ve made. I look up as my eyes finally begin to adjust to the bright room, and freeze as I finally catch my reflection.

I don’t even know the person reflected back at me.

I reach one hand up as I can’t take my eyes away from the image in front of me, and run my hand over my unshaven face. Am I a little thinner? I run my fingers through my uncharacteristically messy hair and then have to put both hands on the counter, as the world seems to spin for a moment. I look down to get my bearings, then raise my head to meet the stranger before me again.

This can’t be me. This person is nothing like the one I see daily whose face is plastered on ads and commercial after commercial. His eyes aren’t completely empty like this. He doesn’t look so hopeless like the reflection in front of me. No. This picture of total despair can’t be me. I must be seeing things. It must be the alcohol…too much alcohol. But as I look down and see the jagged red gash down my arm I realize it’s not a dream. This is me. This is the me who sees nothing wrong with drinking myself into oblivion and running glass down my arm.

I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Didn’t someone tell me something like that once? I can’t remember. I slowly shake my head and begin rummaging through the box, full of things I still haven’t bothered to unpack, sitting on the counter. Toothpaste, toothbrush, shaving cream, nothing I can use. I keep digging through the small box in front of me and my mind begins to drift again.

*****

I need to hurry, is all I can think, as I randomly toss things from the bathroom cabinet into the box in front of me. I really don’t want to see her. I just want to get away from this house full of bad memories. Maybe if I leave Florida, leave her, I can find myself again. Maybe I can remember who I was.

I’ve almost got everything I need, not that there was much. The movers already came for my trophies and other “things” I couldn’t bear to be without. Now they’re in storage somewhere…I’m not even sure where. I’ve packed my clothes and taken them down to my old Camaro and this is all I have left. If she’ll just stay away a little longer I can get out of here and not have to see her hate-filled eyes again.

But then I hear a voice in the hall. Someone speaking sharply and I feel my chest tighten. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. I try to hurry even faster, grabbing a few more things and closing the box, folding the top so that it will stay closed and moving to my feet. Maybe I can still slip out. Maybe I can avoid another confrontation, but I feel her presence before I even turn around.

“What are you doing here?”

I can hear the venom in her voice and feel the anger coming from her before I even turn around. Why couldn’t she have stayed away just a little bit longer? Why am I even doing this again? I turn slowly, the box holding my few belongings in my hands, and see her standing at the bathroom door, arms crossed across her chest, glaring at me.

I look down briefly, trying not to show any emotion at all before raising my head to meet her eyes and saying, “I’m on my way out, Brooke.”

I step forward, trying to move around her but she blocks my path. I step back and sigh. Why does she have to make this so difficult? I meet her blazing eyes again and just ask her, “What?”

“You aren’t supposed to be here. You left. You shouldn’t even be able to come in here anymore,” she says, and I can only shake my head. What was I supposed to do? I left her everything, everything but the few things that were mine--things she couldn’t care less about.

I set the box down and reach in my front pocket for my keys and take the house keys off the ring. She’s right. What do I even need these for anyway? I toss the keys on the counter, vaguely hearing the clinking noise they make as they hit the dark marble. “There. Are you happy now? Can I go?” I ask her, nothing more than exhaustion in my voice.

I grab the box off the counter again and push my way past her. I start making my way across what was once my bedroom and hear her call out after me again, “Happy? You think I’m happy, Jeff? This is your fault. Not mine. You’re the one with the problems.”

I just shake my head as I keep walking. My fault. She’s probably right. But all I ever wanted was understanding. Someone to let me be me…whoever that is. I didn’t want to play the game anymore. I still don’t. Why can’t she see what we had wasn’t a marriage? It was just a pale shadow of what love should be. Was it always that way? Weren’t we in love once? Weren’t we happy?

I finally make it down the stairs and head for the front door, but I can still feel her trailing behind me. What does she want?

“Jeff…”

Her voice is different now, almost desperate. Could she really care? Can we still fix this? Maybe she’s right. Maybe I need help. I don’t even know what my problem is anymore. I have to see. I have to know, and I turn around as I reach the door, looking for something, anything to make this last year go away.

I meet her eyes. She’s only a few feet away and I swear I can almost see something. Maybe she doesn’t want me to leave. Maybe I still have a chance to find my way back. But just as I feel the first glimmer of hope in months building in my chest, I see her entire face change. Her eyes grow hard and cold, probably a fair impression of mine lately. Her once beautiful smile forms a hard cruel line as she glares at me again and I feel another part of myself die.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore. You are nothing to me. You are nothing. Get out.”

*****

Everything ended in that moment as my world finally shattered around me. I felt nothing but cold and emptiness as I turned and walked to my car, leaving everything I ever knew behind. I’ve felt nothing but that cold empty void ever since…except when I’m with him.

He is the only one who makes me feel anything, and I can’t allow it. She was right. I am nothing. Why can’t Jimmie see that? Why can’t he understand I’ll just destroy everything all over again if I let him in? Why does he have to look at me the way he does with deep, dark eyes offering more than I can ever accept?

I grip the counter again, shaking my head as I try again to push back these thoughts. Isn’t drinking supposed to keep you from getting so introspective? Isn’t it supposed to be an escape? Why do I feel like I’m trapped?

I reach into the box again, finally finding a bottle of peroxide. I look at it for a moment and realize it must have been hers. I don’t ever remember buying any. I shrug my shoulders at this thought and unscrew the bottle, putting my abused arm over the sink. Then I pour the clear solution over the bright red gash on my arm. I hiss at first as I feel the biting sting, but then I remember the calm, the peaceful emptiness I felt before and I focus on the pain.

I look down and focus on the faint fizzing sound as the peroxide bubbles and foams on my arm. Then I pour a little more over the cut and this time I don’t even feel the pain. I feel nothing but a comfortable darkness that I realize I could get very used to. My mind empties completely as I watch the evidence of my self-destruction slide down my arm as it makes its way to the drain…and I don’t even care.

I don’t know how long I stand here before finally shaking myself from the darkness enveloping me. I do my best to keep my mind clear of thoughts as I turn and blot my arm with the towel hanging from the wall. Then I shut off the bright light of the bathroom and make my way into my dark room. I stumble over to the bed, falling down across it, still doing my best to keep my mind from drifting to thoughts I don’t want to face.

I press my face into the pillow and instantly know it’s all useless as I see nothing but the same beautiful, emotion-filled brown eyes that haunt me every day and night. I hear myself moan in frustration as I try to fight off the images, but as always it’s a losing battle. I can feel the dreams coming on again as the darkness closes in and there is nothing I can do about it.

“Jimmie…”

I barely even realize his name slips from my lips as the night finally wins and I slip into unconsciousness plagued by images of things I can never have.

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Catw00man - catw00man@cryptoffic.com