Tony: He pretty much hates everyone right now, including himself.
--
For some reason the bourbon wasn't having the same affect it always had. He needed more. Something stronger. Something more numbing. Anything.
He could barely focus long enough to decide on a task. Cut, sand, drink? Did it really matter? Did anything?
The pain did.
He tried closing his eyes but all it did was magnify his hearing. All he heard was the bullet passing through the air. When he opened them, all he saw was the pool of blood. It was hopeless. The memory would always be there. Sure, in time it would ease but he knew better than to think he would ever forget. It didn't matter how strong the bourbon was or how much energy he exerted pining away at his boat…every time he closed his damn eyes she would be there. Smiling at him. Diving in front of him. And lying dead beside him.
He slammed a lone fist through the hull of his boat and welcomed the physical pain; a momentary distraction from the emotional guilt. He knew it wouldn't last but that didn't matter…
The pain did.
So he cradled his mauled hand in the other and stared at the blood trickling down. He cringed as the bourbon began to wear off and the pain became more and more intense. It was then the physical outweighed the emotional and he cried out. Not in any audible words, but pure hatred…hatred of the pain. Hatred of himself.
He glanced down at the blood stained mark of the man who'd taken her away and found himself kneeling beside it. He placed his mangled hand over the darkened circle and resisted the urge to pound at the cement and never stop. But he knew that sooner or later the pain would subside. It may never leave, but it would subside.
So he gathered himself to his feet and took in the image of himself.
A broken hand.
A broken heart.
A broken man.
And in a fleeting moment all he could remember was her smile. It was then he realized that if pain was the cost of remembering, then it did matter. But now something else mattered more…
The healing.