song for the section:
After my long, torturous hours in the shower of beating myself up, I headed to bed without a second thought. The crying did not cease as long as I was conscious. You'd think it would eventually stop, that the main reason I was in such dismay was because I was tired. I wished that was the reason. But the pain- the pain I was feeling was deep and numb, an indescribable feeling that chipped away at me the longer it lingered.
I must've fallen asleep eventually, but I was later jolted awake by the familiar noise of the creak of the door, footsteps, and quiet voices kept low- the four guys arriving home from the bar. The footsteps moving throughout different parts of the house kept my blind senses occupied as I tried to drift off into a dream less sleep again.
Sometime through the night, I could distantly hear my door creak open slowly, the jingle of car keys. I assumed it was Joe checking on me. I could not sleep for the rest of the night, however, paralyzed from worry that he would find out how I had spent my evening, tearing up my skin for the sake of addiction and release. My dry fingers grazed over the rough, ripped gauze wrapped around my arm, sodden with blood that I prayed didn't stain the sheets.
•••
The next morning was plagued with silence. Patrick and I were the last to wake, leaving us in awkward silence at the breakfast table. His wandering orbs avoided mine behind his thick glasses, reflecting the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. I thought he was never going to say anything, that he was going to leave this agonizing silence to build up to an insurmountable level, but he eventually he spoke timidly, "Did you have fun last night?"
"Yes," I blurted out without any consideration. "I like that bar."
"Yeah, it's pretty nice. Taylor and I go every weekend." There it was. The murder of the conversation. As little as the mention of her name was enough to create a thickening lump in my throat, the urge to cry growing by the second.
"Yep.." I managed to croak, my throat dry despite the water I had been drinking, the glass gripped so tight that the color was pulled away from my knuckles.
He took a long sip from his mug of coffee and sighed, frowning at his phone that lay buzzing softly on the table. "Oh, excuse me." He lifted the phone to his ear whilst stepping outside swiftly, leaving the door slightly ajar.
"Hey, babe," he answered, smiling. "I'm at home right now. Yeah, I'll come over. Now? Okay." My heart slowly migrated to my stomach, my spirits falling. Jealously flooded through me, along with worry. Patrick just seemed too.... innocent for her. She didn't seem to be his type at all.
Patrick hung up the phone, a smile plastered to his face, stepping inside as he tried to contain it. I was seating at the table, pretending to text on my phone to charade my eavesdropping.
"Hey, I'm going out. I think everyone else is in the basement if you need anything..." he said as he threw on his black cardigan, stretching the dark fabric over his wrists and gently setting his signature black fedora on his neatly combed hair.
"See you..." I muttered, but not before he had scurried out to his car. I blew out an exasperated puff of air and picked at the peeling black polish on my nails that had been painted a week before.
The roar of laughter from the basement rang into the kitchen, as it was right above. My conscience told me to join them, to socialize, but the dominant half of me just wanted to be on my own. It felt almost ironic. I had promised myself, back in Florida, that I would make an effort to be social once I came to L.A. Nothing seemed to change. so, during a time like this, I knew exactly what would make me feel better- music.
I sat on the porch for several hours playing the numerous songs and thoughts that zoomed in and out of my mind, not even minding the neighbors that happened to be watching. In the middle of what must have been the seventh song, Six Feet Under The Stars by All Time Low, Patrick's Mercedes pulled into the driveway.
