06. Far Away - Severance
This time, This place
Misused, Mistakes
He went about his life in a drunken haze. Fighting with Kat had led to him finally meeting Brittany. But even that did not go as well as it could have. He was just too invested in a relationship that had no future.
He could not remember a time when he had ever behaved as he had in the Tokyo airport. He was actually ashamed for both himself and for her. But that shame was the only emotion he could muster for her for weeks. It was the only emotion he could come up with for most anything, when he thought about it. So he didn't.
Instead, he drank and stewed, boiling in his own alcoholic self-pity. The attempts he made to get his head about him and do something useful failed for the first month. He passed on jobs and spent money only on enough food to survive and enough liquor to drown.
In a fit of complete self abuse, he filled the bathtub with five inches of bourbon and stuck his face in it. The alcohol burned his eyes and nose, but his body refused to let him give up. He came up sputtering and growling at his own inability to kill himself. The liquor went down the drain and he started washing out his eyes, all the while cursing himself.
Another two weeks of drunken self pity brought his next attempt to end his life. He sat out on his balcony with a bottle of whisky and his Glock. Between swigs from the bottle, he cleaned the handgun, disassembling it with care and oiling each part. It was a meditative act, allowing himself to focus on the task that would follow the gun cleaning.
A sip, then the slid of the brush through the barrel. Another sip, followed by the slow rub of cloth on metal. A sip. The smooth texture of the bullet in his fingers. A sip. The muffled thump of the slide locking back. A longer sip. The whisper of the round being placed in the chamber. The metallic clink of the slide slamming home.
A long chug.
The taste of oiled metal against his teeth, the sight against the back of his teeth.
Eyes closed.
The slow pull on the trigger, searching for the point where the pressure leveled off.
The realization that his death would guarantee that he had to see her.
The sound of the gun being slammed down on the wooden table next to his chair.
The muffled sound of his own sobs as he understood how trapped he was.
He rubbed his eyes and wiped at the tears. The bottle came to his lips again and he took a long drink before throwing the now mostly empty bottle against the balcony's low wall. The crash of shattered glass replaced his sobs as he stood. He took the gun inside and holstered it, putting it back under his pillow. He then wandered into the bathroom to shower.
While he hid his tears in the scalding water of the shower, he resigned himself to exactly how entwined his life was with her work. There was nothing he could do that wouldn't, in some way, bring him in contact with her. He decided, in that moment, that he would go back to work and make their relationship a purely professional one again, something he had failed to do in the past. This time, he would not fail.
He continued to believe that for another week as he worked. He believed that professionalism was the answer. His heart knew better and he found himself wishing for a chance to apologize, to beg forgiveness and tell her how much he loved her. But he could not call to her, sometime held him back.
A frozen cup of coffee changed all that.
(638)
Misused, Mistakes
He went about his life in a drunken haze. Fighting with Kat had led to him finally meeting Brittany. But even that did not go as well as it could have. He was just too invested in a relationship that had no future.
He could not remember a time when he had ever behaved as he had in the Tokyo airport. He was actually ashamed for both himself and for her. But that shame was the only emotion he could muster for her for weeks. It was the only emotion he could come up with for most anything, when he thought about it. So he didn't.
Instead, he drank and stewed, boiling in his own alcoholic self-pity. The attempts he made to get his head about him and do something useful failed for the first month. He passed on jobs and spent money only on enough food to survive and enough liquor to drown.
In a fit of complete self abuse, he filled the bathtub with five inches of bourbon and stuck his face in it. The alcohol burned his eyes and nose, but his body refused to let him give up. He came up sputtering and growling at his own inability to kill himself. The liquor went down the drain and he started washing out his eyes, all the while cursing himself.
Another two weeks of drunken self pity brought his next attempt to end his life. He sat out on his balcony with a bottle of whisky and his Glock. Between swigs from the bottle, he cleaned the handgun, disassembling it with care and oiling each part. It was a meditative act, allowing himself to focus on the task that would follow the gun cleaning.
A sip, then the slid of the brush through the barrel. Another sip, followed by the slow rub of cloth on metal. A sip. The smooth texture of the bullet in his fingers. A sip. The muffled thump of the slide locking back. A longer sip. The whisper of the round being placed in the chamber. The metallic clink of the slide slamming home.
A long chug.
The taste of oiled metal against his teeth, the sight against the back of his teeth.
Eyes closed.
The slow pull on the trigger, searching for the point where the pressure leveled off.
The realization that his death would guarantee that he had to see her.
The sound of the gun being slammed down on the wooden table next to his chair.
The muffled sound of his own sobs as he understood how trapped he was.
He rubbed his eyes and wiped at the tears. The bottle came to his lips again and he took a long drink before throwing the now mostly empty bottle against the balcony's low wall. The crash of shattered glass replaced his sobs as he stood. He took the gun inside and holstered it, putting it back under his pillow. He then wandered into the bathroom to shower.
While he hid his tears in the scalding water of the shower, he resigned himself to exactly how entwined his life was with her work. There was nothing he could do that wouldn't, in some way, bring him in contact with her. He decided, in that moment, that he would go back to work and make their relationship a purely professional one again, something he had failed to do in the past. This time, he would not fail.
He continued to believe that for another week as he worked. He believed that professionalism was the answer. His heart knew better and he found himself wishing for a chance to apologize, to beg forgiveness and tell her how much he loved her. But he could not call to her, sometime held him back.
A frozen cup of coffee changed all that.
(638)