Crash Into Me
The frigid winter air filtered through the comfortably heated home as he stepped inside the house he had called his home for the duration of his life. It smells like cinnamon and gingerbread for someone had been cooking while he was out shoveling the driveway. He sighed as he pulled off his hat running his fingers through the messy blond locks. His footsteps appeared to be slow and deliberate as if he were trying to slip in undetected. Those hopes were soon dashed as the wind slammed the front door behind him. His wife greeted with a ripe hello from the kitchen and he followed the same suit. Yet things never seemed to flourish in the house anymore. He paused before entering the kitchen feeling a sudden wave of apathy wash over him. In a black in white world he would sit down to dinner with his wife, talk about the joys of the holidays then casually sip wine as a nightcap until they retired for the evening. But this was not a black and white world. Shades of gray seemed more prominent lately.
They ate in silence which was a common practice recently. Rarely did they ever meet eyes at the table. It was a game of avoidance, a dance they had nailed down perfectly. When dinner was finished he placed his dishes in the sink, grabbed a bottle of scotch and retired to his study for the evening. Mrs. Lindsey Strauss-Scott was not at all fazed by her husband's behavior. She had long since grown used to his lengthy nights of writing. Loneliness was no longer a factor in her life, she would slip into a bed at an early hour after a glass of wine, listening, and hoping he would snuggle up next to her at a decent hour. Yet there was a clear and concise difference between wishing and the painful reality of it all. Of course he would not retire before midnight nor would he be any more affectionate towards her than he would a lion. No, tonight would be the same as many nights that proceeded it; alone, quiet, and apathetic. She would clutch the sheets close to her body feeling tears wet her pillow, run her mascara that she was too indolent to remove, thankful that the pillowcases were a deep blue, if that was the only thing she was thankful for.
In the late hours Lucas Scott remained awake, tipping the glass filled with scotch to his lips. He was never much of a drinker at least not in the early days of his marriage. Now he was bordering on alcoholic at the rate he consumed scotch. His fingers clicked effortlessly across the keyboard as his story was beginning to take shape. However, his writing had become complacent. Somewhat of a distraction from the fact that his marriage was crumbling and no one wanted to do anything about it. He tipped the bottle to his glass once more only to find it empty. A groan of frustration erupted from his throat and he merely tossed the bottle on to the carpet below.
Despite the chilling wind and below zero temperatures, he pulled on his jacket and hat and laced his shoes. A note or some indication that he was leaving might have been best, but they weren't speaking any more than short monotone sentences laced with apathy. Instead he began his slow procession to the liquor store, a route he could probably walk backwards with his eyes closed. There was no variant in the circuit. He walked with the same easy lope with his hands shoved deep within his pockets, blue eyes fixated upon the icy ground. People could usually identify his hunched figure when he walked, even this late into the night. Whispers circulated but he soon learned to fall deaf to them.
The familiar trill of the bell rang as he entered the twenty-four hour liquor store. The cashier looked up from his book giving a light flick of his head towards Lucas. He was a frequent customer as duly noted by Gil who worked the night shift. Truthfully, he felt sorry for Lucas. The story of Lucas Scott was legend and he was no stranger to that. His jaw was set in an assertive fashion as he paced easily towards the back of the store completely oblivious to that around him. He didn't even notice that he had brushed shoulders with another customer.
"Oh, excuse you." came the familiar rasp of a voice that belonged to none other than Brooke Davis. She was highly annoyed at his lack attentiveness. Yet, she soon came to the realization as to who the culprit was. "Oh Lucas, I didn't see you there."
He halted mid-stride upon hearing her voice. With a pivot he found himself face to face with the Brooke Davis. "Sorry." he mumbled like a child who had been reprimanded by their mother. It was almost an involuntary reaction something he had repeated to Lindsey on a number of occasions if only to ease the argument. His relationship with Brooke had become estranged over the five year course following his marriage. Destructiveness and the complete one eighty in his personality had been more than enough for the distance between them to lengthen among other issues.
"It's okay Luke." she replied softly placing her hand on his shoulder. She noted his rugged appearance. His face was in desperate need to be shaved, dark purple circles seemed to be permanently colored beneath his eyes, and tired lines had begun to set in his once youthful and fresh looking face. Sadness washed over her as she looked into his eyes. It was as if he had given up all hope on the world, he was not even clinging to shredded pieces anymore.
An awkward silence crept over the air between them when Lucas did not respond. Brooke wondered vaguely if he would ever recover from this or would his downward spiral lead him to something far worse. Though concerned, there was nothing she could do anymore. He had all but pushed everyone away. Even Haley and Nathan were struggling keep in close contact with him. "Well, I'll see you around Luke." she began to turn around then paused and turned back around to face him. "I miss you Lucas." then left without even purchasing anything.
If he could have produced a tear in that moment, he was certain one would have fallen. But it appeared he had long since shut down any of his rational human responses. He was far worse than a robot. Gil the cashier wished him a goodnight following his alcohol purchase and Lucas left without a backwards glance. Now ensued his trek home following the same footsteps he had taken here. He tried not to think much during his alone or quiet time for there were memories that would drive him to something far worse to alcoholism. With an elongated sigh he ventured up his porch steps. The house looked the same as ever much to his distaste.
Lindsey immediately woke as she heard the familiar slam of the door and his hesitant footsteps. She was thankful he made it home okay this time and she was not being called to pull him from a dumpster of the police station. With a heaved sigh she fell back into the pillows listening in desperation for his footsteps to approach their bedroom door. To no surprise they never did and faded off as he stepped into the carpeted study. She wondered vaguely what he was writing. It seemed like an eternity ago that she watched him so careful with the words he chose for his two previous novels. She missed the way he would pour over every sentence working the words to perfection for the full effect. Now she could barely watch as he typed carelessly and deleted more than he ever actually wrote. It was more than evident that his muse had left him once more or maybe he just did not care anymore. He even appeared uninterested with coaching the Ravens, something he had always been passionate about. It seemed almost surreal that four years ago she was in a completely happy marriage and now she is a marriage with no words or affection.
Lucas plopped down in his office chair spreading his fingers over the keyboard. Yet he could not tear his glance from the framed poster on his wall. It was the poster Lindsey had given him after the success of his first novel. It clawed and ripped at his chest as the wounds suddenly felt raw and not as though they had been healed over. Next to that was a framed poster of his second novel that had nearly tore his relationship with Lindsey apart. Some nights he wished it had.
He typed slowly, his fingers moving in a languid motion. When nothing worth writing came to him, his lips crashed against the bottle it was far easier than pouring it. He tried again to write, and still nothing. In turn, he again swallowed another mouthful scotch. Then he tried again and thus followed the same result. The pattern continued like this until his heavily lidded eyes began to droop closed.
Lindsey found him the next morning sprawled over his desk with the bottle tipped to his side leaking liquor. She merely closed the study door unable to bring herself to spare a second glance at his crumpled figure. Her heart no longer broke at the depressing sight. It certainly was not the first time she had found him like this, nor would it be last. She busied herself with housework, straightening up the house that was already spotless. Though pristine, she had to do this in order to occupy her mind.
Sometime around mid-afternoon he stumbled from his study, red in the face and bleary eyed. His destination was quite clear from the look upon his face, the bathroom. And when he did find it, the result was horrendous. He poured over the toilet bowl for the remainder of the afternoon and found himself asleep by five. This was common routine for him now. Denial. Who was he kidding anymore? No one cared about his books. No one cared that he and his wife had faked happiness throughout the duration of the holidays. No one cared simply because he did not care and he did not want others to care.
When he awoke from his latest nightmare he lay in bed for a long while staring blankly at the ceiling. Brooke's words seemed to hit him in all of the wrong places. He had not been "Lucas Scott" in a long time. That version of himself had long been left behind. Her words suddenly seemed to make sense. But how could he regain a part of himself that he had seemingly lost so long ago? His life was not black and white. His life was a languorous circle of gray.