[This is another short story written for writer's craft. It has already been marked aswell, but I still want your feedback!]
As I open the door to our fourth floor apartment, I call out “Honey, I’m home,” and wait for her to come kiss me hello like usual. But she doesn’t come. “Hello? Charlotte?” I call out again, but still nothing.
Just then I hear a rustling coming from the bedroom. I creep closer and open the door softly. Our room is completely disheveled. It looks as if we’ve been robbed. The drawers are open and mostly empty, what remains spills out of them; the closet is open and the hangers hang uselessly with nothing on them; things are strewn across our brown shag carpet and I notice all of it is mine.
Finally my gaze falls onto our bed. My beautiful girlfriend stands in front of it, her back to me. She is packing.
“Charlotte…what are you doing?” I ask worriedly. She turns around. Black streaks mark her porcelain white cheeks. She has been crying.
“I have to go.” She explains firmly. I can see tears welling up in her eyes.
“What do you mean go?! Where?! Why?!” I ask, panicking. She doesn’t answer and turns her back on me. “But Charlotte, what have I done?!” I plead for answers. Still, she says nothing.
“Charlotte! Please don’t do this to me! Please!” Now I am crying and begging. I feel pathetic and desperate. My mind searches for what could have possibly caused this. “Oh Charlotte, is it because I don’t help around the house enough?” I lamely come up with. “Charlotte please! I’ll do anything! I’ll clean the whole house everyday if you want me to! I promise! Just please don’t leave me!” I cry out. Still she doesn’t reply and I feel like she isn’t even listening. She continues to pack her clothes.
I take two strong steps over to her, grab her arm and spin her towards me. We are face to face. “Charlotte, don’t do this, I love you.” Tears slur my words.
She pushes me away and I stand in front of her, hurt and stunned. She bursts into tears and covers her face.
I try to hold her, to console her. I can’t stand to see her cry, but she pushes me away.
I hear her mumble something through her hands. “What did you just say?” I ask tearfully. All I hear are more mumbles. “What?” I ask again.
Her hands drop. “I said, I don’t love you.” This time she says it clearly though she is still crying.
I feel sick to my stomach. Dropping to my knees I let out gut wrenching sobs.
“Please go, I need to pack.” She says coolly. I ignore her and continue to sob. It feels like I’ve been stabbed in the heart. The pain is unbearable and I find it hard to breathe.
“I need to pack.” She says louder.
I stop crying as hard and look at her. She is wearing the sweater I gave her for her birthday. Her icy blue eyes are bloodshot and mascara smeared. Even in her anger, she is beautiful. I want to keep her image in my mind forever. She avoids my eye contact.
Looking up at her I beg, “Why?” My voice cracks. She just bites her lip in response.
Taking a deep breath she says, “Please go…” more quietly and vulnerably than before. I can see her hands are shaking and she is struggling not to cry. I drag my dead body off our floor and somehow manage to walk out of the room. As soon as I close the door I can hear her finally let out her sobs. The sound is wretched.
I wonder where the love we shared just yesterday has all gone. I walk into the washroom across the narrow hall from our bedroom and lay myself face down on the cold tile floor. They are the same white and yellow speckled tiles we slept on after a dinner of bad Indian food, the same tiles she scrubbed on her hands and knees after I got drunk one night and puked all over the floor.
Our memories are everywhere. I turn over onto my back and look over into the shower. Our old forest green shower curtain still hangs there, half open. Her apple shampoo sits in the same place it has always sat in her corner of the tub. I have never smelled a girl that smelled as good as her.
I hear a knock on the door and it breaks me from my thoughts, but the sadness weighs down on my chest, keeping me from getting up, and the lump in my throat prevents any words from crawling out.
“I’m leaving now Bryan, I’ll get someone to come over and pick up the rest of my stuff later.” She pauses, “This is what’s best for you, trust me.” Her voice catches on the last word and I hear her rush out of the apartment quickly.
I stay on the bathroom floor for what seems like eternity. The pain filled seconds drag on like eons. I am too hurt to even cry anymore. I feel my life is already over.
Tiredly, and painfully I pull my broken self up and stand in front of the sink. I lean on the porcelain heavily. Looking in the mirror I notice how I look as bad as I feel. My eyes are bloodshot and red rimmed, the blue stands out more than ever in contrast. My face is puffy and swollen and snot runs down to my lips. I wipe it on the back of my hand.
I open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror; my prescriptions for anti-depressants and anti-anxiety sit near full on the shelves. I stopped taking them a few months ago because she had made me so happy. I thought I was better. She was my world, now I have nothing left.
A tube of lipstick also lies in the cabinet. It’s the colour of ripe strawberries and I loved when she kissed me in public while wearing it because it left red marks all over my face. I felt like it showed the world that she was mine. I pocket the tube and shuffle to the kitchen.
Leaning heavily on things; couches we made love on, walls that still hold up pictures of the two of us, a side table her father made for us; I make my way to our yellow and white kitchen. The sun no longer streams through the tiny window over the sink, the sky is now grey and I can see my haggard reflection in it and shudder in disgust. I turn away and look for the bottle of vodka I know is kept in the freezer. Finding it, I drag myself back across our tiny apartment and make my way back into the bathroom.
The cabinet is still open and I pull out my prescriptions; Xanax, Abilify, and Zoloft; and place them in a row on the sink counter. I close the cabinet once again and take her lipstick out of my pocket. I open it and write on the mirror. The door to the bathroom remains open and I don’t bother to close it, who will see me now?
I take a large sip of the vodka straight from the bottle and it burns my throat on the way down. Opening each prescription bottle I pour out into my hand as much as I think I can swallow at one time. The vodka helps them go down. I quickly swallow two full bottles and half of the Abilify before I start to feel cloudy.
I sit down and force the rest of the pills down my throat with the last of the once full liter of vodka and nearly choke. I am now too cloudy to even sit up.
Laying down I look up at the ceiling and hope there is a God and that He is forgiving. I close my eyes. All is black.
Meanwhile…
Driving on the streets I know will take me to my parents’ house I struggle to keep control of my car as my eyes blur with tears. I don’t understand why I bother though; I don’t know why it matters whether I die now on the street or three months from now.
I think back to sitting in my doctor’s office just hours ago. I had been feeling unwell for a while and went in for a check up. He ran some tests and told me not to worry. A week later he called me to say he had bad news.
When he told me of the deterioration, the agony, my body would be going through in its last stages of life, all I could think of was that Bryan was not strong enough to see me like that, and I couldn’t let him.
I knew he’d be heartbroken, but I figured he’d get over it soon enough, and by that time, I’d be over too.
But now as I drive down these familiar streets under this ominous grey sky, I can’t help but think I’m going the wrong way.
As I make an illegal U-turn, the rain starts to fall. The sky and I cry together.
It has been nearly an hour since I left him and it’ll be the same on the way back. I hope I’m not too late.
Thunder roars above me. The streets are empty as the rain pours down in sheets. My wipers work in double-time as I try to call Bryan from my cell phone. After trying three times without success, I get worried and speed up.
Lightning cracks above me and I get the feeling of imminent doom in the pit of my stomach. I slip and slide on the wet asphalt as I approach our building.
Getting into the building I don’t wait for an elevator and run up the four flights of stairs to our apartment I kept the key and don’t bother knocking before entering.
“Bryan?” I call out. “Bryan, are you still here?” That’s when I notice the bathroom light is on and the door is wide open. I walk over quickly to see why.
The love of my life lies limp on our tile floor, an empty bottle of vodka by his hand. On the mirror scrawled in my favourite lipstick are the words “I LOVED YOU. YOU KILLED ME.” As I read my stomach turns. There are two pill bottles on the counter beside the sink. They are empty. I step forward quickly to check Bryan’s pulse and as I do so I slip on a pill bottle I hadn’t noticed was on the floor. On my way down I feel my head crack against our porcelain sink. All is black.
