Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
More anger.
More pain.
Drown it.
I gulp back more, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, gasping for air in between mouthfuls. And still, the agony remains. “Fuck you,” I spit, taking more, determined to be rid of this noose around my neck. I carry on swigging and pluck another bottle from the box before loading the rest into the freezer and heading for the stairs. Every single thing in my home is a trigger. It all has her name on it, and worse, I see her everywhere—on the couch, on the stairs. I finish the bottle, drop the empty at my feet, and make fast work of opening my fresh one as I take the stairs slowly, inspecting my abused, swollen fist. There’s blood everywhere, and stupidly, I don’t want to get it on any of the walls or furnishings. It’ll smear her hard work with my pathetic-ness.
I go straight to the bathroom, avoiding the bed and the vanity unit, and flip on the shower. Her shampoo stares at me. I reach for it as I take another swig, before lifting it to my nose and smelling it. My stomach turns. My head booms. I discard it and strip down slowly, stepping in the stall, and I spend just enough time under the spray to clean up the blood before exiting and finding my vodka. I avoid the mirror, getting my phone and putting some music on to blanket the unrelenting silence. Angel comes through the speakers, and I still, listening, the part of my mind that the alcohol hasn’t reached yet telling me to turn it the fuck off. But that’s a small part of my mind. I turn the volume up to max and put it on repeat. I deserve to be tortured.
Wrapping a towel around me, I go back downstairs. My only escape from the visions of her all over my apartment is the terrace, so I go there, collapsing onto a sun lounger. I have time to make up for. An oblivion to find. I stare up to the sky while working my way through my second bottle, the fuzz in my head becoming thicker with each swig I take. Yes. Nothingness is within reach, but I frown, the bottle pausing at my lips when the music shuts off. I swallow and start to push myself up, set to find my phone and put it back on. I was enjoying the torment.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I fight and struggle with my unresponsive body. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I finally make it to my feet, and when I stagger, the alcohol now replacing the blood in my veins, I find Ava standing on the threshold of the terrace. I blink. Once, twice. She’s not a hallucination.
She’s here.
And she looks shocked. What’s with that? What the fuck did she expect? For me to head to The Manor and fuck my way back to normality? “You’re too late, lady,” I mumble, feeling nothing but contempt for her. Because she did this. What she’s staring at now, she did it. So the fact that she’s looking so fucking stunned is a fucking insult.
“You’re drunk,” she says.
Yeah, I’m drunk. But not drunk on love anymore. I’m drunk on my faithful friend Vodka. Love obviously doesn’t suit me. Vodka, though? It feels good. She can’t touch me now. She can’t hurt me. Nothing she could say will sober me up and take me back to where I absolutely cannot be. “That’s very observant of you.” I raise my bottle and have another needed swig, being sure to maintain this emotionlessness. “Not drunk enough, though.” I pass her, going to the kitchen to source more medicine, since she’s taken herself off the menu.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“What’s it to you?” Don’t tell me she’s worried about me now? I grab another bottle and sling the empty in the sink. “Bastard.” I wince, trying to unscrew the cap, my hand hurting. A lot. Why the fuck does it hurt? It shouldn’t hurt. Nothing should fucking hurt. I fight my way through the pain and swig in a panic.
“Jesse,” she says softy. “Your hand needs looking at.”
My hand? She should see the state of my fucking heart. And on cue, it cracks a little more, pain radiating through me. What the fuck is this? “Look then,” I grate, showing her the mess. “Yet more damage you’ve caused.” She has the nerve to look insulted. Is she fucking blind? Didn’t see The Manor for what it was. Didn’t read all the signs. Doesn’t know how much I love her. “Yeah, you can stand there,” I snap, anger returning to join the pain, “stand there looking all bewildered . . . and . . . and . . . confused. I fucking told you. Didn’t I warn you?” I can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t bare this agony. “I . . . I warned you!”