Author's Note: This is basically a follow-up to "The Last Time" but it can be read on its own. It's a one-shot for now but maybe it will turn into a multi-chapter. So, let me know what you guys think. (:
Disclaimer: I do not own Nashville
To love is to suffer
To be loved is to cause suffering
Comtesse Diane
He's driving on the freeway again.
It's dark by now, the incandescent sky gone, replaced with a somber blackness. The only source of light is coming from his truck, two yellow beams fixed on the grey concrete.
The stars, once shiny and majestic, are swallowed by melancholy, blinking for help. His eyes don't take notice of the beauty, just the ugly entities that are buried under colors and delicacy. He thinks that he might just throw up.
The window is down, still, and the air is suffocating him. It's not the cool and warm breeze that he felt hours prior anymore. This time, it's cold. Frigid. And it chills him down to the bone.
Are we done?
She nodded. The motion is slow, almost like she's trying hard to believe it herself what she's done. But she nodded, nonetheless, and it was enough to send him tumbling down a bottomless pit, forever falling.
It wasn't supposed to go down that way. And yet he thinks twice if he really did expect this. He's hurt her, that much he knows. Hurts her so many damn times. He just didn't count on realizing that he has been hurting her so badly that she's finally had enough. Enough of the nightmare that is him. He wants to take it all back, he really does. But the damage is done and he's run out of bandages.
He grips the wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white. His palms are sweaty and he feels the damp leather beneath his fingers. This is life for him. Shit. Always preyed upon by his demons until he finally cracks, until he is gone. And when he finally has something that makes him consider that maybe, just maybe, life isn't as dark as he's always seen it, he is popped out of the bubble and wakes up with life as fucked up as it always was. Talk about one bird with a million stones.
He remembers the diamond ring on her finger. Remembers how it felt wrong. The image of Rayna Jaymes, untamed and unfettered, bound to a man who will turn her into his domesticated little housewife. A trophy that will stand wherever Teddy Conrad's shadow falls.
But he can't help but think if he's any better.
She used to smile a lot. And it makes her look happy, like she's doesn't have a care in the world. Now it's a bitter and pitiful smile. And he knows it's because of him. Every time she looks at him, it's the same smile, strained. Fake. And he deserves it because he's a stupid, pathetic stereotype. The kind of man who puts alcohol first and women second. Just like his father. A drunk.
He's a drunk who could never see how good he had it. Never could see the silver lining because he was three sheets to the wind. He swallows the truth, hell bound to choke.
His rainy days were unbearable, always clouded up and filled with lamentation. Filled with empty promises and what ifs. And it drowns him, steals the air right out of his lungs. He wonders if this is what she must have felt. Except that she felt it a million times worse. Feels it like knives cutting deep within her until she is just a shamble of pieces on the ground.
He wants to punch himself in the face. Wants to feel the pain he's caused her, makes him want to taste his own medicine. And he knows that it's going to be a horrible taste. Because that's exactly what he is. Horrible.
Flashes of blurry visions runs across his mind. Unknown city lights, blinding to the eyes, his face planted on the concrete floor. He doesn't remember much when he was in the loop of jumping on and off the wagon, but he remembers tears and red hair. Remembers white rooms and hospital beds.
Remembers red hair like light in a dark abyss.
The south part of town always had the best booze. A quick and dry fix, as he likes to say. And needless to say, he needed to shrug off the anxiety that has been nagging him to no end. He needed to forget this night.
He takes a sharp turn and hears the screeching of the tires. He's in a haze. And he navigates the road on an automatic perception. He's been there so many times now that he knows it like the palm of his hand.
As he nears the bar, he could hear the faint twang of the music, classics conceived through intoxicated heaven. He feels right at home.
He parks at the back, it's a busy night, and enters the room and the smell of alcohol is intense, hits him like a tidal wave. He sits in one of the stools and a man quickly pours him a drink.
Bourbon.
An old friend.
He stares at it for a while. He doesn't know what's stopping him from downing the damn thing. Isn't this why he came here in the first place? To get drunk? And yet he doesn't move an inch. He thinks of Rayna and her smiles. Her beautiful smiles. He thinks of her baby blue eyes, recalls how much he loved getting lost in it. And he thinks of all the shit he had let her suffer through. All those times when she had to swallow her pride just to get him out of bars and the media.
His jaw clenches at the memories. Starts seeing red and white.
With a sharp intake of air and a simple swipe of his hand, though brimming with fury and self-repentance, the glass hits the wall and makes a sound that captures everyone's attention, glass shattering everywhere. The music stops and eyes stare at him with shock. But he doesn't care.
Deacon Claybourne just doesn't fucking care anymore.
And he does what he's never done before. He stands up and leave.
He runs away from home. Just like he did when he was seventeen.
Quick and decisive strides lead him to his truck. He gets in and slams the door shut. He puts the vehicle in ignition and sighs. Veins are protruding from his neck and his nails are digging into his palm that he might break skin. He breathes hard, like he'd been running for miles. He feels exhausted and thinks he might as well just die on the spot. Thirsty for water.
He starts maneuvering the wheel, steering left and right turns. He drives, oblivious to the fact that he is speeding well beyond seventy miles per hour on a quiet neighborhood. Everything is a blur, the world spinning too fast on its axis, makes him feel like floating and getting sucked into the vortex of a big black hole.
When he arrives at his house, he goes straight to the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face. He doesn't know why but he just does it.
He looks at his reflection in the mirror. And he sees a dead man wearing skin that is not his own. His eyes have taken a hue of the darkest of brown. Almost black. This is the man he's become. Helpless. Dangerous.
His hands grip the sides of the sink. He is so angry and most of the time it's unnecessary. He's tried to deal with alcoholism, a long and hard battle. But he hasn't tried to deplete his anger, which is a toxin in his blood. And he's learned a long time ago, a slander is like a hornet; if you cannot kill it dead the first blow, better not strike at it.
And without thinking, his taut fist makes contact with the mirror and it cracks. The skin on his knuckles break and red liquid appears. He stares at it until a line of blood forms and trickles down the drain.
Without thinking, he goes into the kitchen and turns into a monster. Grows two horns when he ransacks the whole place. He flips the table upside down and kicks the limbs, breaking it. Sharp pain snakes up leg and he likes the feeling. He throws plates, the flower vase, anything that he could get his hands on. Breaks everything that reminds him of Rayna.
He takes down every record, every picture on the walls like he's scraping her touches off of his skin. He grabs his guitar and hurls it down on the floor, splitting it into two. He rips apart papers and papers of love songs, tears it up like his heart is in raptures.
He is restless, hasty like a beast, never getting tired. Pumped up with so much anger, fuel burning through his veins.
He doesn't stop until everything around him is in shambles, just like his life.
Morning doesn't come to mind when the sun starts to rise. His curtains are down, blocking him from the intolerable reality. His room is dark and he doesn't quite see the disaster that he had brewed last night.
His clothes are scattered, clothes that she used to wear in the mornings after spending the night. Ballads litter the floor, crumbled and shredded. Memories are ripped apart, forgotten, stained with nostalgia.
He's sitting on the floor of his bedroom, static. He's in a state of limbo, thinking of everything while disregarding it at the same time. He feels like nothing. Just a baggage important enough to be carried around, but insignificant enough to be consigned to oblivion.
He doesn't register her entering his house, unresponsive to her when she utters his name. Only does he notice her when she tugs at him so hard that the back of his head is hitting the wall and sting draws him from nirvana.
"Deacon? Deacon!"
He sees her as a foggy silhouette, edges blurry. He doesn't recognize her until he sees her red hair. Soft red hair and he smiles.
It's a deranged kind of smile. And she stares at him in awe. Disgusted and frightened at the same time.
"Are you-?"
She's wearing the face again, the one that makes her forehead crease. The face he's seen one too many times that he memorizes every fold, every wrinkle. It's full of pity and disappointment. And he laughs.
"Drunk? Is that what you were about to say?"
She recognizes the slur in his tone. But she doesn't recognize his eyes, clear. She hasn't seen this side of him before, so hollow and unhinged, and she doesn't know how to react to it.
She looks around the room, searching for those demons, hoping that she'll find one. But she doesn't.
"I'm not drunk, Rayna."
And yet, she keeps looking. Her eyes squinting in the darkness. Adamant.
He grabs her wrist and it gets her attention. His eyes start to soften but it's only for a second and it returns to being barren.
"I'm not drunk."
He lets go of her hand and waits for her to talk. Waits for her to do something. But she doesn't do anything but stare at him and he's getting impatient.
"What are you doing here, Ray?"
He snaps her out of her bubble. She doesn't respond because she can't remember reason for coming. But then, she does.
"Umm... I came to check on you."
He laughs again. Still, there's no humor.
"I don't know if I should be thankful or not but as you can see, I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"Don't you have Teddy to go and marry or something?"
He's pushing her buttons and she's aware of it.
"Deacon, you need help."
He's had enough of those words. Too many times he's heard it and it sounds like nails scratching a black board to his ears.
"Leave me alone, Rayna. I mean, you're already leaving and marrying someone else, how about start?"
She shakes her head. "Are we going back to that now? Me marrying Teddy?"
"Of course, Rayna! That's always what this has been about!" He is raising his voice, and it's hoarse. "You're leaving me for that asshole who clearly doesn't deserve you!"
"And you do?!"
This glues his mouth shut. Mute.
"You think I wanna live life in hospitals and bars? Do you want me to cry every time you get up and get drunk? Never knowing if it's the last time I'll ever see you alive?"
He's still too stunned to speak.
"'Cause hell knows I don't." Her voice is quieter and the irony is, the blow is much more painful that way.
It hurts to think that those words ring the truth, to say the least. But to voice them is torture. Tears are threatening to spill and she doesn't want him to see her cry.
She is almost out the door when finally, he speaks.
"You know, people say love conquers all."
She turns around. Blue rigid eyes meeting passive brown ones. She laughs softly, but it's ill-humored, almost sullen.
"Until alcohol does."
She lets her words hang in the air for a while, heavy. Lets the inevitable truth slaps them both in the face, gravity pulling them down to earth. They used to dream of forever and duets and sold-out stadiums. Now, love has turned them into adults, teaches them that love might be the tie that binds but it's also the tie that will choke.
She sees the turmoil that is ravishing him from the inside and she hates herself for it. Hesitantly, she leaves. And she begs herself not to turn back. Refuses to open the door to tragedy, because that's what they are: two crossed lovers destined for tragedy.
He sits on the floor, limp, dead to the world. Just as he thought he's been broken enough, life chastises him one more time, sends a hurricane to blow his jagged pieces far, far away, making it impossible for him to find himself. Makes it harder to fix.
And they say it's darkest before the storm.
Liars.