Page 39 of Requiem & Reverie

“Give me some!” Denny shouts from behind the camera, and his hand reaches out to tickle Oli. “I meant some of this.” The camera pans away, but the sound of kissing plays on my memories of feeling like everything was right in the world that day.

Now I’ve lost them both. First Denny. Now my little boy.

A sob rips through my chest, as the weight of that settles down on me, and I tip back the bottle of whiskey, already half gone, letting the burn sink down my throat. I don’t even like whiskey, but it’s the only thing I could find when I rifled through the cupboards of the in-law suite, looking for something hard-hitting to get me drunk enough to numb the pain. As if Voss left it behind because he knew I’d need it, at some point.

For the first time in my life, I have nothing to live for, and it occurs to me how terrifying that is. How easily one can be swayed into thoughts that’d otherwise seem absurd. Thoughts like, how long it would take to drink oneself to death.

How lonely my mother must’ve felt.

For years, I hated her for neglecting me, ignoring me. I dare say, if she could admit it to herself, she probably even wished Jonah and I could’ve been shipped off somewhere else after Nora’s disappearance, but at least my older brother could take care of himself.

I still needed her. I still wanted her to be my mother, and I remember the nights she lay on the couch, just as I am, watching videos of my sister. Ignoring dinner. Ignoring the cleaning. The laundry. Me.

It pissed me off that she could be so preoccupied with the past, when I was still very much a part of her present, but as I lie here, losing myself to these short little snippets of Oliver’s life, I get it now. And I thank God that I don’t have another child counting on me, because I’d probably be just as useless.

Nora was her first baby. Her first time being a mother. She represented all of her first joys in life, and when she disappeared, that joy was stripped from her.

I know this from personal experience now.

Lifting Denny’s phone, which I forbade Jonah to take with him, I check the account that held the original instructions to find Oliver, one I suspect—hope—belongs to the kidnapper, as Denny wouldn’t have known a damn thing about encrypted anything. He was never tech savvy enough. Couldn’t even figure out how to use the damn phone for the longest time. So, I’m certain he wasn’t the one who put the app on his phone.

My emails remain unread. I’ve sent a total of a half-dozen messages to the encrypted email address in the last two days, each one growing increasingly desperate. Not a single response back.

I push up from the couch as another video begins.

I can’t take it.

I can’t stand to watch my son, hear his voice, and know that I may very well never see him again.

Few things can torment the way the mind does. Two straight days, I’ve fought random visuals of my son, chained somewhere in darkness. Cold. Alone. Terrified. I’ve imagined him enduring agonizing torment without the ability to do more than cry out in pain. I’ve awakened far too many times to the sounds of those screams in my sleep, until I decided sleep was no longer a possibility.

The alcohol helps, though.

Stumbling down the hall, I lose my balance and slam, shoulder-first, into the wall, before continuing on. Once I reach my studio, standing in the middle of all that pottery, I look around at bowls on shelves, the vases with their gold vining.

The scars of suffering that supposedly make them more beautiful.

Well, fuck that.

I throw the bottle at one of the shelves, knocking down an entire row of bowls I repaired. Each shatters on impact. Hours of work, gone in seconds. Grabbing a nearby broom, I set the phone down and swing at the next shelf, and the next. Plates, vases, platters come crashing to the floor. Barefoot, I step over the pieces, ignoring the sharp slivers of pain across the bottom of my feet.

“There’s nothing … beautiful …” Another swing takes out a shelf of glazes. “About pain!” Between sniveling and sobs, I pause for only seconds to catch my breath, then keep on with my assault, until my pottery room looks as destroyed as I feel inside.

Dropping the broom, I fall to my knees, and the sound that tears from my chest carries a level of pain I never thought myself capable of.

The kind from which there is no coming back.

* * *

I lie on the floor staring at the shattered ceramics. I would stay here all night, but the sickness from the half fifth I drank earlier has moved down into my belly, cramping my gut, while the room spins in my periphery. I push up from the floor, falling backward a few steps, and stumble toward the bathroom.

Everything moves slowly. Fluidly. As if I’m underwater, sinking deeper.

The urgency in my belly compels me to hurry, and I just make it before the fluids shoot up my throat into the toilet. Over and over, I heave and vomit, expelling the poisons of my misery, until I don’t have anything left in me.

I’m empty inside.

I rinse the sour taste in my mouth with mouthwash, and another wave of dizziness hits. Lying down on the floor fails to stop the spinning in my head. I clamp my eyes shut, weak hands cupping my face, and the silence pulls me under.