Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

The coffee finishes brewing and I pour a huge cup, adding cream and sugar before taking a much needed sip. Maybe I should take a vacation. Perhaps somewhere relaxing and tropical. I gulp another mouthful of coffee and let the warmth spread through my system.

Mmmmmm, what would I do without coffee? Maybe I should go to Costa Rica. They make great coffee there.

I’m sitting on my deck, enjoying my second cup of coffee while fantasizing about relaxing in a hammock on a beach in Costa Rica, when I hear a car’s tires crunching on my gravel driveway. The cottage is small enough to hear the doorbell ring from out back, even with the sliding glass doors closed.

If that’s Hawke again, I swear I might have a nervous breakdown.

I put my mug on the kitchen counter as I make my way to the door, steeling my nerves to face Hawke for the first time since Saturday night. Some friends we turned out to be. He won’t call me back, and I can’t even be in the same room as him without burning up with either lust or jealousy.

Hands clenched, back tense, I fling open the front door, ready to have it out with the first guy I ever loved. Heck, the only guy I ever loved.

Only it’s not Hawke on my front step.

Hawke

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I hurl each of my drumsticks at the padded wall of the studio at Ross’ house, where they bounce noiselessly to the floor.

It’s been five days since I saw Abby at the club. Five days of dealing with the deep-seated self-loathing, made worse by my own stupidity. Fucking Jessica in the bathroom didn’t make my feelings for Abby lessen. Pretty much all it did was cause Abby to actively avoid me for the rest of the night.

Now, because I don’t want to let anyone down by scratching the itchy, crawly sensation burrowed deep under my skin with my usual reckless behavior, I can hardly sit still. The amount of anxiety coursing through my veins is begging me to get up and do something about it.

Ross doesn’t care if I come and go to use the studio at his house. He’s used to me keeping strange hours. I check my phone to discover it’s already six in the morning. I’ve been here for five hours, trying unsuccessfully to beat the blackness out of my mind by pounding endless rhythms out on my drums.

Hours of playing and I still feel the suffocating stranglehold of my demons, tightening around my neck like an invisible noose, sucking the air from my lungs, the light from my soul… If I even have a soul left inside my hollow chest.

I fist my hair and stand up, so frustrated I begin kicking the stool repeatedly while cursing nonstop at the top of my lungs. “Son of a bitch!” I grab the metal legs and swing the stool at the floor, slamming it down again and again until the vinyl pad snaps off and it’s just a misshapen hunk of metal.

My hands fall open, letting the remains of the stool slide to the ground. There are deep cuts on both of my palms, blood trickling down to pool on the black rubber soundproof mat.

Images of the accident flash behind my eyes… my sister, Hannah. I collapse to my knees and wail, a long, primal, agonizing howl until I’m wrung dry. Panting, I curl up in a ball and let the misery overtake me. Eleven years and this is the first time I’ve allowed myself to grieve for my family without turning the blame to myself.

When I finally catch my breath and calm down enough to sit up, I realize I feel lighter. Not much, but enough to notice a difference. I reach into my pocket and pull out Hannah’s stone, fingering the smooth, curved edges. What would my little sister think, seeing me headed toward destruction, slowly letting guilt chip away at any chance of having a decent life?

I already know the answer. Clenching my fist around the stone, I make a decision I should have made years ago.

I cannot go on like this.

11

Abby

“Ezra? What are you doing here?”

I’m shocked to find Ezra on my front step at eight in the morning on a Wednesday. Especially considering after our date at the club on Saturday, I told him I couldn’t see him anymore. I’m more shocked, however, to see the normally attractive man looking disheveled and upset.

“I wanted to talk to you, Abby.” Ezra’s hands twitch at his sides and he shifts from foot to foot. My instincts scream at me to be careful.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Ezra. I said all I need to say. I can’t lead you on by continuing to see you when I’m not in a good place for a relationship right now.” I begin to close the door, eager to get away, but a large palm smacks against it, holding it open.

“Please, Abby? Just hear me out.” His eyes express a silent plea, and being the empathetic idiot that I am, I open the door to let him in.

“One cup of coffee, Ezra. One.” I hold up a finger to emphasize my point.

“Sure, whatever you want,” he readily agrees. I refill mine and grab another cup to pour one for Ezra, sneaking glances while I stir in his requested creamer. He’s tense and somewhat agitated. This is not the Ezra I remember, fun and playful, if not a little too handsy for my liking.

Ezra takes the offered mug and follows me to the back deck. I sit in my chair, but he remains standing, towering over me. He places his cup on the small table and begins to pace back and forth.