Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 22: The Void

DAMON

The road ahead is dark. Endless. No lights. No lines. Nothingness. Silhouettes of jagged trees whip past me, the speed of the car accelerating, my foot on the gas peddle pressed all the way down. I can't take it off. Wind snaps against the air, whipping against the vehicle. Loud. Destructive. But I keep driving. Keep going. Further. Faster. There must be an end. There—

The high beams turn on by themselves, the system controls blinking rapidly as the car speeds up, the force jerking me backward against the seat. No. Clinking glass sounds from where my feet are placed. I look down. A bottle. And another. And another. No. Multiplying. Expanding. Restricting the movements of my feet, my legs. I glance up, eyes widening as I stare out into the road. A person. In the distance. Arms open. Like an angel. Not moving. Move!

I grip the steering wheel, panting, screaming, using all my strength to twist the wheel but it's stuck. The bottles keep piling up, on my lap, around my waist, spilling over to the driver's seat. Too fast. I'm going too fast. Move! You need to move! Her hair flows in the violent wind, arms raised to the heavens. She can see me. She has to see me. Move! Fucking move! Sweat drips down my temples, tears down my cheek. Her chin is tipped towards the sky. Serene. Calm. Like she's waiting for ascension. Move! My heart seizes, zapping my spine, my bones, the tears freezing into icicles on my face as the car approaches the woman.

Please! Move, you need to move! You need to—

Her head snaps down, greens eyes locked on mine as I'm seconds away from taking her life.

No... Emery...

No!

With a ragged gasp, I jerk up, holding my chest, beads of sweat dripping from my forehead. Moonlight seeps through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating my bedroom. It's not real. It wasn't real. My gaze floats to the empty space beside me. Empty. I reach over, closing my eyes, begging the gods to make her appear. As if with only my mind, I could will her into existence. As if they'd listen to my screams. To my desperate need for company. For a body to lie next to me. Not any body. Hers. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rewind the hours, reliving the five precious minutes she spent in the safety of my arms, and me in hers.

Anger stews inside of me. How is it that I feel more alone now than when she wasn't in my life? How is that possible? When I'm with her, next to her, talking to her, touching her, smelling the sweet scent of her perfume, the void that's eating away at me, is full. Non–existent. But the moment she leaves, the moment she shuts me out, the moment she draws a line between our hearts, the void is back. Larger than ever.

Like a phantom, a lifeless corpse, I float into the living room. Dozens of half-painted canvases greet me, each a half-finished mess of my attempts at therapy. I run my fingers along the thick and bumpy dried paint, following the incoherent lines, and chaotic curves. It's nonsensical. A soul dump of color and grief. I stare at the painting and it stares back, showing me my inner turmoil, my demons, my inability to forget. A visual representation of my internal scars. Emery has them too.

The microwave flashes 6 am as I pour myself a cup of coffee. Grabbing a book that's taken me two years to finish off the kitchen counter, I slip on an overcoat and head to my private rooftop. A gust of November wind nips at my skin as the elevator doors open and the bright cityscape of towers appears before my eyes. It's fitting. To live in a city that never sleeps.

"Hope you're not up here to jump." Startled, I whip my head to the firepit. Emery sets a mug down on the side table next to an ornate wooden box. "Did I scare you?"

My chest warms, the void shrinking by the second. "I see you're putting your fob to good use," I say, sitting down beside her. I glance down at the thermos beside her chair. "How long have you been up here?"