Damage

Chapter 11

LUKE

It's been 3 months now.

Yesterday was the anniversary of it; if you want to even call it that.

I used to think that anniversaries were for stupid things like marriages and relationships, but now I know that they don't really mean anything. All they represent is time passing.

He would have hated to see me like I was yesterday. Drunk off my ass and high and not really able to think clearly about anything. Maybe that's why I got so wasted in the first place.

After killing the bottle of bourbon and smoking a few blunts I was so numb that I couldn't remember anything. It was all great until I felt like I couldn't remember his face or remember what he was like anymore - the combination of too much time since I've last seen him having gone by as well as the bag of weed that I was almost through with.

She reminds me of him. Maybe that's why I called her.

And maybe that's why I decided to get even more drunk after talking to her. And maybe that's why I went out and got into a fight and did even more shit that I shouldn't have.

It's barely 5 in the morning and the sky is still dark. This cemetery is completely silent and quiet enough that I can think about what dying really is - cold rotting corpses in the ground. Not anything beautiful that people make it out to be.

"He's in a better place now"

"Our condolences"

"In these trying times"

"We're so sorry for your loss"

Condolences. Trying times. Sorry for your loss. Your loss, your loss.

Your. Loss.

Useless fucking apologies that mean nothing. I take out a cigarette from my back pocket and light it up, my hands slow after not sleeping at all tonight.

It almost makes me laugh.

If the roles were reversed, he'd be here almost every fucking day, putting flowers on my grave or some shit.

But all I do is get drunk, come here, and smoke a cigarette.

When it comes to the person that these bones underneath 6 feet of soil used to be, I don't know what's worse: the forgetting or the remembering. By now, I've figured I'll never sort it out.

So I walk away from his grave and head back to my car, dropping the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with my foot. It's almost morning anyway.

MIA

"Luke."

"Hi," Luke mumbles towards me curtly, pulling a box of cigarettes from his back pocket and putting one between his lips. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes; of course the person who I least want to see would be at this coffeeshop

He looks exhausted. Drained, tired, eyes heavy as he blows smoke from the side of his mouth. Deep purple bags hang underneath his lower lashes and just from looking at him I can tell that he's nursing a hangover. His mouth is slightly curved into a tight-lipped smile, but I don't believe it - or see any emotion in it.

He brings the death stick back to his mouth, holding the cigarette between his index and middle finger and I notice something I hadn't before as Calum and Emily make small talk. His knuckles look raw and red with a few cuts along them and I can see a small cut running by his eyebrow. Was he in a fight?

"What are you guys majoring in?" Emily asks, her expression having softened after the caffeine has fully spread through her body.

Luke boredly exhales upwards, the smoke twirling and undulating in the air and I find myself captivated without meaning to, both Emily and Calum's voices sounding muffled, like they're underwater.