Ricochet looked at the photo on his phone. The only photo he had left of Kamilla. Her shoulder long, mahogany hair that had the slightest of wave to it. Those dangerous, dark brown eyes that had made him fall in love with her instantly. And now she was gone.
"I can't do it anymore, Rico. I've tried. You keep promising to get help but nothing ever changes except for the brand of whiskey you buy each day."
He had forgotten most nights since he started drinking but that one night was clear as daylight. He had yelled about how he didn't have a problem. He was in control of his drinking. She had rolled her eyes at him and that had infuriated him. He had flown up from the chair, only to stumble over his own feet and fall face forward down on the floor. Her cold, mocking laughter had reached him.
"Sure, you don't have a problem. You can't even stand up."
She had picked up a bag from the floor. He didn't even know when she had packed it. It wasn't until next morning he realized she had packed everything she owned. The rest must already have been in the car that night. From his place on the floor, he had turned his head to look at her as she prepared to leave him.
"Don't leave, Kamilla. I love you."
Again that cold, mocking laughter came out of her. He had never heard her sound like that before. This wasn't his Kamilla. This was a woman fed up with everything and not giving a shit about him anymore.
"If you loved me, you would have gotten help."
From his position on the floor, he watched her leave. He heard the front door slam. He heard her car start and drive away while he started crying. He cried until he passed out. He was still lying on the floor next morning when he woke up. The first thing he did was reach for the bottle he hadn't emptied the night before. He needed it this morning, more than he had ever needed it before. It was her fault for leaving him.
That was three months ago. He kept telling himself she would come back one day. She couldn't live without him. And he was still in charge of everything, including his drinking. So what if he liked whiskey? A lot of people liked it. It wasn't a problem. He still got up in the morning and went to work. He still wrestled without problems. He got through each day without drinking until after the shows. It wasn't a problem that he drank after a show. A few drinks wouldn't hurt him. He denied the truth in him emptying bottle after bottle.
He stared at the photo again. Deep inside his sanity sometimes pushed through to tell him she wasn't coming back. She had left him for good. Last thing he heard someone had spotted her out on a date with someone Ricochet didn't know. His insanity kept telling him that she was just trying to make him jealous. She would come back one day. Once she realized how life truly was without him, she would come back.
"This is your fault!" He growled at the picture. "Pretending to be better at me. Leaving me to teach me a lesson. I know you'll come back, and you know I'll take you back. The left side of the bed is still yours."
He knocked down a big swig of the content of the bottle. It didn't even burn down his throat anymore. It hadn't done that for a long time. It was like drinking juice to him these days. He sighed as he continued staring at the picture. Those dangerous eyes he had fallen in love with seemed to mock him through the screen.
"I do love you no matter what you say. You'll come back. One day you'll come back home where you belong," his voice went down into a whisper. "Please, come back."