Leaving New York... Alone...
I run down the stairs from Brandon's apartment, needing to do something, instead of just standing in a fucking elevator. I run out to the street and hail a cab, my jaw and fists clenched tight to keep myself from dissolving into tears as I ride back to the airport. I get on the jet, demanding a pack of cigarettes and a LOT of alcohol from the flight attendants. They look at me, very disapproving, but like I give a fuck. I think they can tell I'm in a foul mood, not like I'm not radiating it, and hello, my fucking fiancé, well, ex-fiancé now, isn't with me. They bring me several small bottles of liquor and a pack of cigarettes. I spend the next few hours smoking and drinking and trying to somehow feel like my life is not shattering in my hands.
By the time we get back to California, I've smoked the entire pack but still don't have a buzz going from the tiny bottles of alcohol. Damn Slayer constitution. I don't bother to thank the flight crew, they were nice enough to stay out of my way, but I just can't talk to anyone right now. I hop on my motorcycle and hit a liquor store, buying two cartons of cigarettes and as many bottles as I can fit into the saddlebags before heading home.
Home, that's a fucking joke.
Thankfully no one is around and I run up to our room, my room, and throw off my clothes, pulling on a t-shirt of Brandon's that still smells like him and a pair of boxers. I sit on the bed against the headboard, downing a fifth of Everclear and smoking another pack of cigarettes before I throw the empty bottle on the floor, finally allowing myself to curl up on the bed and sob.