I closed my eyes and then I could feel my loss as he walked away from me. All the warmth that usually radiated from him dissolved, leaving only cold air in his wake. It was then that the tears decided to fall. They were aggressive and ugly, and no matter how hard they fell, I didn’t feel relief.

The front door opened and I knew he was leaving. I couldn’t just let him walk out of my life thinking I hated him. I didn’t. I loved him and I felt anxiety when I thought about being without him.

Before he could shut the door behind him, I ran down the short hallway to the living room.

“Zeke!” I called out.

He stopped and cracked the door back open to see me. His brows pinched down in confusion and he bit nervously at his lip ring.

“Yeah?”

His voice sounded flat. Not hopeful. Not happy, just flat. As if I’d sucked him dry of every ounce of emotion. In some ways, I did. I’d turned him inside out and he’d done the same to me. He was right; we were lethal, and if we continued this, one of us wouldn’t make it out alive.

My tongue felt thick. Tears clogged the back of my throat and threatened to choke me every time I opened my mouth to speak. I swallowed the clog and it filled my stomach with ache.

“I love you, too. Always.”

His dark eyes watered, but he understood we were done just like I understood. He nodded his head, attempted to smile, and then he turned and shut the door behind him.

Sixteen

Zeke

Rock bottom was a fucked-up place to be. I’d been there before, though, and I was sure to visit at least a dozen more times before I died. That still didn’t mean it was a vacation. It was hell.

I’d never put my hands on a woman in my life. There was only one incident at The Pit where I had to hold a woman down to keep her from hitting me in the middle of a bar fight, but that was the extent of it. Of course, I’m not sure if that one counts since she was more man than me.

It crushed me to know I’d physically hurt the woman I loved. It was as if I’d been stripped raw and someone poured alcohol all over me. Every part of me, inside and out, stung. I hurt everywhere, and years of watching my father hit my mother slammed into me and paralyzed my soul.

I just stood there and watched as Snowflake and Hope ran from the scene and out the door. As badly as I wanted to run out and stop her, I couldn’t. The shock had immobilized me. It wasn’t until minutes later that I came back to myself and ran toward the exit to check on her.

By the time I got outside, she was pulling away. Her face was covered in napkins and I could see the pain in her eyes when she looked back at me. I wanted to run alongside the car and make it all better, but what was done was done and there was nothing I could do to go back in time and fix it.

Looking down at my messy shirt, her bloody handprint was like a punch to the back of my head. I didn’t even bother pulling the shirt over my head. I ripped it off my body as quickly as possible. I needed her blood away from my skin. It was like poison, and I could feel myself getting sick knowing it was on me.

Things were really fucked up this time. What we had was over. It had to be over or we’d terminate all the good that was left in ourselves. Even though I’d probably bleed out without her holding me together, I had to let her go. She was obviously ready to move on with the guy I kept seeing her with, and I couldn’t take feeling crazy anymore.

Still, I needed to know she was okay. I’d never forgive myself for hurting Patience, even if it was an accident. No matter what she did to me, she didn’t deserve that. No woman deserved to be hurt, even if she’d managed to rip out my heart and tear it to pieces.

When I got back to the apartment, I packed all my stuff and got everything ready to leave. I needed to see her once more. I had to see that she was okay and then I could fly away into the West and hopefully never look back.

I played her song over and over again and watched the clock. My phone was sitting on the bedside table next to me since I hoped she’d at least text me back or call and let me know she was okay, but it never made any noise.

When I looked up and saw her standing in the doorway, I felt relief and devastation all at once. Relief that she was okay after I’d spent the night worried about her, but the bruising on her face did me in. I could barely breathe seeing what I’d done to her. I felt like a madman. I wanted to tear up everything in the apartment, but all I could do was crumble into a big heaping pile of fuck-up on the bedroom floor at her feet.

It seemed I’d done a lot of that lately. I’d begged and cried. I’d fought and fought for what I wanted, but sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes you just have to give in and lick your wounds. That or do so much drugs that you don’t feel your wounds anymore.