"Why is it always you, that ruins everything just as it starts to get better?"
You ever say something that, in the middle of saying it, you know you shouldn't have said? Before the words have even finished coming out of your stupid mouth, you know that you never should have said them.
You know it'll ruin them. You know, with every word, the rip in their heart gets bigger and bigger, and when the words are done, they leave a nasty taste in your teeth, like swamp water, and a stinging pain in your gut.
He hangs up.
He hangs up the phone. And I already know that I fucked up so fucking bad.
I mean, I fucked up bad the first time, but this? This? Echoing the same words his mind tells him every time he does anything, every time he thinks about me?
I press redial. It rings, and rings, and rings, and then it plays his voicemail.
I press redial again. It rings, an agonizingly long time, and then jumps to voicemail again.
Again and again, so many times that I lose track. He doesn't pick up, doesn't pick up, doesn't pick up. The screen gets blurrier and blurrier and my hands start to shake.
He can't be dead. He can't be dead because of me. Because of what I said. He can't be.
I call again.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
And rings.
And rings.
And
rings.
Voicemail.
I almost drop the phone, but catch it and cradle it against my chest.
Oh, god. Oh, god, I've lost him again. The second time worse, more permanent than the first. Forever and ever, the world has to go on without him. I have to go on, knowing that that house now stands, with no one living inside. No one breathing, no one.
How long until someone finds him? What a disservice, if they find him rotten. That wouldn't be fair.
My body feels so weak. My voice is gone. This hotel room is so small and present, now.
At first, the alienness of it made it comforting. Unfamiliar, like a stranger's arms after a heartbreak; it was a distraction, an adventure, something, other than the thing that you can't stop thinking about.
But I've been here for eight months.
Every time they call me to ask why I haven't checked out, I tell them to charge my card again.
They do. Did, for a while. Not really, anymore. I think one of the staff is footing the bill, or maybe the owner.
Pity, maybe.
He thought I hated him. He called me. 'Over and over.' He told me he missed me. My voice. He asked if I was okay.
And I told him that he ruined everything, just as it was getting better. But it was me, every time, it was, it is, me. Each and every time my heart breaks, it's because I gave it to someone or I set it out there and it got broken.
Collateral damage, half the time. Rose-colored glasses, the other half.
What am I gonna go? He's dead because of me.
The lamp in the corner flickers goes out. The storm rages on outside, the moon piercing through the clouds just enough to hit the snow coating the ground, reflecting the light. It's just as bright as it would be on a clear night, the flurry of snowflakes the only thing impeding vision.
I see myself in the window.
But it's not me. It's someone else.
He's put-together, he's handsome and strong and even though it hurts, everything hurts, right now, he'll find a way through it all. He'll come through, just like he did before, just like he's always done. He knows that this isn't his fault, that taking one's life is their choice and their choice alone.
He has my face, but he's not me.
I just came out of a tunnel, and I plunged right back into the earth. I can't do it. I can't do it, knowing that the world is so much darker without him, knowing it's my fault he's gone.
I get up and pace, making circles through the room. Every glance at my phone, I consider calling again. I know he won't pick up.
I don't bother.
I want to go home.
When I think of home, I see my room in Aedin's house. I see the tiny window with the crooked blinds. I see a pile of my clothes under the desk with the un-synced CRT TV on top, an unmade twin-sized mattress.
I see him, the look on his face, sitting on the toilet and wrapping bandages around my wrist as blood drips down my fingertips.
I see him, behind my eyelids, and it's bittersweet because I always wondered if he loved me and now I might even know the answer and it doesn't even matter because he's gone and it's my fault.
I see him, the image, the outline, in the doorway, in the hallway, behind the glass patio door, in the kitchen, in the living room, on the stairs, from every angle, every position, with every facial expression. I hear every note in his voice and I remember the brand of soap he wore.
It bites like bitter coffee and makes me long for those times so much more.
I lay back down on the mattress and try to imagine what his arms would've felt like, because that's all I can do, is imagine. He's gone. I won't ever get to find out.