They pretty much all say the same thing. I punch in one answer.
Don’t worry. I’m fine.
After I get a fresh bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, I pop more pills in my mouth, three of them. Then I add two more.
It isn’t long before the blackness comes back. I welcome it with open arms. I sing to it, I croon to it. I cradle it in my arms. I do whatever the f**k I want to do to it because it’s blackness, the darkest of nights, and it doesn’t care. If I am alone in the dark, nothing matters. I can’t hurt anyone but myself and I f**king deserve it.
I close my eyes and let the darkness cradle me. It can f**k me for all I care.
********
Mila
I can’t think straight. I accidentally didn’t charge a customer at the store. So after that, I gave up and turned my sign to Closed.
I sit by the window of my store, staring out at the happy people walking down the sidewalk. They don’t know how good they have it. Their lives are so easy.
I try to text Pax again, but like the four days prior, there isn’t any answer. I’ve driven out there, pounded on the door, called him, even cussed into his voicemail.
No answer.
Only once. Don’t worry, I’m fine.
He’s not fine. And no one seems to care but me.
I’ve thought about calling the police to have them check on him, but I doubt they would. He’s not doing anything illegal, so what can they do? It’s not illegal to drink yourself into a stupor. And the only thing he has in the house, to my knowledge, is the prescription Xanax. I once again wonder at the wisdom of prescribing that to Pax.
When I had asked Dr. Tyler about it, he explained that he had prescribed it because Pax isn’t an addict.
“He’s not addicted to any substance,” the doctor had said. “He simply hasn’t formed proper coping mechanisms for stress. If he feels like he can’t cope, I’d rather him take a Xanax during the short term while we’re working on these issues rather than seek out illegal drugs. Plus, you’ll be there with him. Everything will be fine, Mila.”
But I’m not there anymore. And things aren’t fine.
I see an image of Jill’s open, dead eyes and shudder.
That could have been Pax. And I’m terrified that if someone doesn’t do something, that will be Pax.
With shaking fingers, I pick up the phone and do the only thing I can think of to do.
I call his father.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Pax
I am falling, falling, falling.
It is black and dark and I can’t see, I can’t think, I can’t feel. But that’s how I like it. If I can’t feel, then nothing hurts. So I keep it that way.
If I wake, I drink myself back to sleep with a Xanax chaser. It isn’t long before I’m in the black again, drifting pointlessly along, sleeping without nightmares.
Only blackness.
I sigh. This is where I belong, where the dark is timeless.
Painless.
The light is painful. The light is where I see her face and know how I failed her.
I’ll stay far away from the light.
Forever.
It isn’t worth it.
I start to close my eyes but realize that they are already closed, so I smile.
This is where I belong.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I open my eyes blearily, trying to focus. I look around at the room. I’m in the living room and I seem to be wearing the same clothes that I’ve been wearing for a while. What woke me? It’s dark outside, so it wasn’t the sun.
I reach for my whiskey, but find that the bottle is empty.
Fuck.
That means I’m out. I’ll have to make a trip to town.
And then I hear what woke me. Pounding on the door.
My heart twinges. I know it’s probably Mila. She’s been here a hundred times this week, trying to get me to open the door, but I never get off the couch to do it. She doesn’t need to see me this way. She doesn’t deserve to be here like this.
The pounding gets louder, very loud.
Fuck. She’s pissed now. I’m impressed with the strength she’s using on that door.
And then, there’s a loud crack and something breaks.
What the f**k?
I stand up and the room spins. I haven’t been on my feet in a couple of days. I steady myself and re-open my eyes. When I do, I find my father standing in front of me. He is clean and shaven and dressed in jeans.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. “Did you just break down my f**king door?”
My father’s jaw clenches. “That’s what happens when you don’t answer it for a week. Your girlfriend called me because she was worried. Get in the shower. We’re going to talk.”
I glare at him. “Fuck you. The time to talk was years ago. In fact, you’ve had any number of chances over the years to talk. But you didn’t. And now I don’t want to talk. Get over it.”
I try to shove past him, to walk through to the kitchen, but he grabs my arm.
His grip is strong and determined.
“Take a shower,” he says slowly and deliberately. “You smell like piss. Get clean clothes on and come back out here. We’re going to talk. Now. Today.”
I stare at him and he stares back. He’s not backing down. And I do smell like piss. Finally, I look away.
“Whatever. I do need a shower.”
I leave the room without looking back. I step into my shower and let the water run over me while my f**king head pounds. I can’t remember if I drank any water this week at all. I actually don’t remember much at all about this week. Every time I woke up, I simply took more pills and drank more whiskey.
I wash, shave and get dressed.
Then I make my way to the kitchen, where I chug two bottles of water. Even after that, my mouth is still dry so I must be pretty dehydrated. I take another bottle of water with me to the living room, where my father is waiting for me.
He’s cleaned the place up while he waited, picking up the empty bottles of whiskey from the floor. He’s sitting in a chair now.
He stares at me as I enter.
He’s grim and sober and I find that I suddenly don’t want to have this conversation.
“Fuck this,” I tell my dad. “We haven’t talked about this in years. I don’t see the reason to talk about it now. The damage is done.”