Kinky Boots 6
It had only been a week.
A week of moving around in a daze, restlessly, of wearing his grief like an invisible blanket that separated him from the world. A week of working through his list of tasks without so much as a flicker of emotion, making arrangements with people without really listening to them. A week of spending the days dismantling his life, bitter piece by bitter piece; then spending the evenings drinking himself into unconsciousness at the office.
He’d given up the apartment, sold everything he could. Everything he had left now was piled in the corner next to his desk - a jumble of ratty plastic bags and boxes that summed up twenty-seven years of his life.
Yesterday he’d spent an hour scraping the word “Law” from the half-glass door. He’d been obsessive, thorough, removing every speck of paint - occupying his mind with a pointless task to mask the aching emptiness for as long as possible.
It was a week to the day since Phoenix had forced himself to make that call, swallowing the icy lump in his throat and making a choice that was no choice at all. Today he’d been sitting here since early afternoon - half-empty bottle of Scotch on the desk, head in his hands, staring into a glass that was alternately full or empty. It was almost dark now, but he hadn’t even noticed the light fading.
Harsh and shrill, the ringing broke the silence, making his heart lurch and jerking him upright. He looked at the phone, frozen, watching the red light flash, feeling his heart flutter. Three more rings and the answering machine would pick up. Three more rings and he might hear that voice. His voice. The same voice he had lied to, hurt, hung up on a week ago and couldn’t bear to hear again.
Then it stopped. Phoenix stared at the phone, couldn’t breathe. The moments stretched on, and then he felt something give way. It was like a wave that came from nowhere, swept over him, drowned him, and when he exhaled with a gasp he couldn’t stop the tears that followed. Relief, guilt, loss, anger - an incoherent jumble of emotion that stole his breath and reduced him to desperate sobs which convulsed his entire body as he fought to gulp air into his lungs. And oh God, the pain - he leaned forward, clutching the edge of the desk with his fingers until he felt the wood digging into his skin.
He tried to reassert control with the remnants of rationality but it made no difference. A week of pent-up grief burst out in an incoherent wail that sounded alien to his own ears as memories of the past and fear of the future flooded his mind. And on its heels came shame at his weakness and embarrassment at his inability to control his emotions. Another wave of tears followed, a shuddering surge of frustration and surrender that left him feeling weak and vulnerable.
After it passed, he slumped forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, hands covering his face. His eyes burned and his cheeks were wet with tears. He struggled to breathe normally, irrationally trying to wipe his nose, his eyes, for fear of what people might think if they found him here, like this.
Unbidden, a memory flashed into his mind of the note that Gumshoe had showed him, two years ago, on the burgundy-edged paper from the Prosecutor’s Office. For the first time he felt he truly understood. But now he had no one to tell.
A week of moving around in a daze, restlessly, of wearing his grief like an invisible blanket that separated him from the world. A week of working through his list of tasks without so much as a flicker of emotion, making arrangements with people without really listening to them. A week of spending the days dismantling his life, bitter piece by bitter piece; then spending the evenings drinking himself into unconsciousness at the office.
He’d given up the apartment, sold everything he could. Everything he had left now was piled in the corner next to his desk - a jumble of ratty plastic bags and boxes that summed up twenty-seven years of his life.
Yesterday he’d spent an hour scraping the word “Law” from the half-glass door. He’d been obsessive, thorough, removing every speck of paint - occupying his mind with a pointless task to mask the aching emptiness for as long as possible.
It was a week to the day since Phoenix had forced himself to make that call, swallowing the icy lump in his throat and making a choice that was no choice at all. Today he’d been sitting here since early afternoon - half-empty bottle of Scotch on the desk, head in his hands, staring into a glass that was alternately full or empty. It was almost dark now, but he hadn’t even noticed the light fading.
Harsh and shrill, the ringing broke the silence, making his heart lurch and jerking him upright. He looked at the phone, frozen, watching the red light flash, feeling his heart flutter. Three more rings and the answering machine would pick up. Three more rings and he might hear that voice. His voice. The same voice he had lied to, hurt, hung up on a week ago and couldn’t bear to hear again.
Then it stopped. Phoenix stared at the phone, couldn’t breathe. The moments stretched on, and then he felt something give way. It was like a wave that came from nowhere, swept over him, drowned him, and when he exhaled with a gasp he couldn’t stop the tears that followed. Relief, guilt, loss, anger - an incoherent jumble of emotion that stole his breath and reduced him to desperate sobs which convulsed his entire body as he fought to gulp air into his lungs. And oh God, the pain - he leaned forward, clutching the edge of the desk with his fingers until he felt the wood digging into his skin.
He tried to reassert control with the remnants of rationality but it made no difference. A week of pent-up grief burst out in an incoherent wail that sounded alien to his own ears as memories of the past and fear of the future flooded his mind. And on its heels came shame at his weakness and embarrassment at his inability to control his emotions. Another wave of tears followed, a shuddering surge of frustration and surrender that left him feeling weak and vulnerable.
After it passed, he slumped forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, hands covering his face. His eyes burned and his cheeks were wet with tears. He struggled to breathe normally, irrationally trying to wipe his nose, his eyes, for fear of what people might think if they found him here, like this.
Unbidden, a memory flashed into his mind of the note that Gumshoe had showed him, two years ago, on the burgundy-edged paper from the Prosecutor’s Office. For the first time he felt he truly understood. But now he had no one to tell.