Dear Camila (Camila/you)

Chapter 13

I had walked back to the hotel from Soho. It was a relatively short walk.

During the walk I replayed the scene in my head, her and him, kissing holding hands.

I still couldn't digest it.

I looked down at my hands and they were damaged. I needed to remove the glass or they would get infected. I couldn't risk going to Syria tomorrow with infected hands. It wouldn't be a good idea.

I stopped at a local store and purchased a bottle of vodka. I got strange looks off the guy that served me from the amount of blood on my shirt, the state of my hands and my cut lip.  I gave him a tight lipped smile while I handed over the money, I told him to keep the change as a weak apology for him having to witness me in this state.

I carried the vodka under my arm as I couldn't close my fists without feeling the glass move underneath the skin of my knuckles. I kept a first aid kit at all times in my luggage I would have to remove the glass as soon as I could.

I arrived at the hotel and unlocked the door, it was quiet, which meant that she wasn't there. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

She probably went to the hospital with her boyfriend. I made my way to the bathroom and stripped off my bloody, dirty clothes and put them in a plastic bag and placed it in the hotel bin. The shirt was ruin and I really didn't want the trousers. They carried memories I rather not remember.

I jumped in the shower and enjoyed the hot water wash over me, I washed off all the blood, it was everywhere, my face, my hands and even my hair. I tried to wash off the loose shards of glass as gently as I could. I reached for my body wash which was next to Camila's I almost used hers, but smelling like her would just be masochistic.

I scrubbed my skin hard, I wanted to remove all evidence of this evening. Even what I saw, but I knew that could never be washed away, no matter how hot or how pure the water.

I got out the shower and threw on a clean pair of black Calvin boxers, a pair of black nike sweats, a Calvin Klein sports bra and a black t-shirt. I didn't care in that a moment what I was wearing. The symbolism of dressing all in black, like I was going to a funeral was not lost on me. I was in mourning.

I towel dried my hair the best I could given the damage on my hands and let it dry into its natural style.

I walked back into the living room and grabbed the bottle of vodka. I took my medikit from my bag and took the two items back into the bathroom.

I opened the vodka and took a big long swig, enjoying the burn on my throat. I opened the medikit and placed a wad of badges in my mouth. This was going to hurt.

I took the vodka and poured some out over both my knuckles sterilising them. I bit down on the bandages as I gave a loud groan.

I took out some tweezers and sterilised the tip with a lighter. I began removing the glass from my hands, biting down and screaming when I to dig out the small shards. It took around 20 minutes to get all the glass out. Well, all the glass I could see. I took the vodka bottle again and took another gulp before re-pouring it back over my knuckles, cleaning the naked wounds, it hurt so much I felt a single tear run down my face.

I removed the bandages from my mouth and shakily placed the vodka bottle down. In doing so I accidentally knocked Camila's makeup bag to the floor.

"Shit" I verbalised.

I bent down to pick it up and started putting the spilled contents back into the bag when I saw it.

It wasn't difficult to miss, it had always been shiny, even when my grandmother wore it.