Page 75 of Ricochet
Cynthia was just there, willing, and I didn’t know how to deal with this fucked-up shit we found ourselves in.
I grabbed my hair as if that would relieve me from the mess brewing in my mind.
I had a feeling my head was about to explode. The alcohol, my father pushing for things I didn’t wanna do, the fact that I lost the only good thing in my life, it was all creating a hurricane there, and I didn’t know how to stop it.
And where the fuck was my phone?
I tried getting up from the sofa I parked myself at, but I underestimated the amount of alcohol I drank, and plopped down like a sad sack of shit. Pathetic. That’s what I was. Fucking pathetic. A weak, fragile man… No wonder she never really trusted me with everything that was going on with her. I wouldn’t be able to take it.
I wouldn’t be able to understand all that she was going through, because I was scared. I was scared of the darkness inside her, I was scared of the uncertain future both of us had, I was scared for my family, my brothers and my sister.
I was fucking terrified this world would consume us both, and what we used to be, would be just a memory.
“Fuck!” I yelled at no one and nothing in particular, or maybe at everything. Maybe I yelled at the unfair hand of destiny all of us were dealt.
I reached for the bottle on the table, only to find it completely empty. Brilliant, just fucking brilliant. Now I had to get myself to the kitchen and find another one. I didn’t even know when I drank it all. I mean, it wasn’t that late.
I looked at the watch on my right hand, but the numbers were blurry, unrecognizable. Shit, did I break my watch as well?
Wait, I just got an idea.
I should go to talk to Ophelia. Yeah, that’s right.
I should get my ass up and go and talk to her. She needs to listen to me. She had to hear what I have to say. I needed to tell her how much I loved her, and that Cynthia didn’t mean anything to me. That’s right.
I should do that.
Pushing myself off of the sofa, I stumbled into the table in front of me, knocking the empty bottle on the floor.
Fucking idiot.
The shards of shattered bottle went flying all over the floor, and the same thoughts entered my head. What if I wasn’t good enough anymore? What if she never forgave me? Why won’t I just end it all?
It would be so easy, so fast.
I crouched down and took the closest broken piece of glass into my hand. Funny, wasn’t it? All of us are always trying to keep it up, to keep the pretenses, this whole life, but we all end up broken. Just like this bottle.
Just like I was.
A small cut, just the length of my vein. I rolled the sleeve of my shirt up, exposing the skin on my underarm. It was there already, pulsing, transporting blood, keeping the life I didn’t want to keep. Nobody would miss me.
At least there would be one bastard less to taint this world, because I knew that this was only the beginning. These killings I did, these orders I issued, these were just the beginning of the never-ending cycle I was a part of.
I loved dreaming about a day when I would be free of this —these shackles, all of this pain, all of this guilt I was feeling and couldn’t let go. I killed bad men, but I also killed the good ones.
The innocent ones who had families waiting for them at home.
The ones who just happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time.
One cut wouldn’t mean anything, right? It wouldn’t bring them back, but at least I wouldn’t be here anymore. I was so tired of all of this —of fighting this filthy world from consuming me.
Ophelia.
Ophelia.
Ophelia.
Would she miss me? No, probably not. I was lying to myself, but I knew she would never forgive me.
