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When we were informed that the flight landed, I had fallen asleep with dried up blood in my hand and on my arm.
I peeled my skin with my nails and it hurt like shit. "I need the bathroom first." I pass a dry smile to an oblivious Zade and shuffle my way to the white door awaiting me.
I wash my hands and watch the crimson colour the sink and drain down with water. I wash it clean, until I see my lifted skin. I crouch down and pull out a first aid box from the cabinet. I apply disinfectant and roll a plaster on it.
I go ahead and wash my face clean of any surfacing emotion. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fau—
She was you.
It all happened because of me and my silly little tantrums. If I didn't give the letter, if I wasn't in a project with him, if I didn't with him to prom, if I just never met him.
None of it would've happened.
. . .
"Are you telling me you couldn't do this yourself?" I stare disgracefully at the large amount of people that called me in for an "emergency" that turned out to be some third grade shit. "What are you here for if I do everything for you?" I slam my fist on the table.
"Ma'am we tried—"
"Take a day off, Mateo." I grit. "None of you can do shit other than blabber."
"Use your pea-sized brain and get your work done. I'm not here to lull and teach you everything step by step." I stare especially to Mark who sits with a cup of green tea on his desk and glare at his laptop screen. "Get back to work." I point towards the door and they all hurry out, leaving my door closed shut.
I have a headache, I'm falling behind in my work space, I haven't slept in ninety-six hours and... fuck.
Hannah saw my mentally challenged self and decided to keep Angelica by her apartment for the time being, which relieved some of me, because I don't have to worry about us both. I'm enough stress for myself.
I don't know if I'm this way because the Rose Murderer is back to his his old antics or maybe because I haven't caught a sight of Zade since he dropped me off by my penthouse a week ago.
I text him every chance I get, he sees them and he doesn't respond, I call and he answers but he doesn't speak.
Work.
I need to get this figured.
With a bead of sweat rolling above my eyebrow, and slightly trembling hands, I reach for the pills in the hidden drawer in my desk. I peel open the lid and the white spheres spill all over the desk and jump on the floor. I hurriedly get them all in my hand and try to get them back into their confines but it goes in vain. I can't hold the bottle still.
I grind my teeth together and throw it across the room. My eyes burn and it hurts to breathe.
He doesn't want you anymore. He doesn't want you anymore.
The voice in head hasn't stopped, if anything, it got louder day by day.
I reach for my phone and manage to tap on his contact without dropping it. It ringed once, twice, trice and he hung up. This time he didn't answer. I called again, and his phone number didn't go through. Again and again.
Again and again.
But he never answered.
. . .
I hate alcohol, especially when I'm drinking it alone.
I never know when I have too much or when it's time to stop.
So much that my eyes redden, I feel lighter and my emotions and delusions dissolve. I just love passing out after a good drink. At least then I'll be able to sleep without insomnia kicking my ass. Whiskey, vodka, wine, scotch... I've had almost everything in my cabinet.
Ding Dong.
I may be drunk as hell but I could hear my door ringing for the third time. Zade.
My eyes widened in realisation and without feeling my own feet move, I was unlocking the door.
