It was just after he dismissed her attempts at apologies that he found her. He was heading down to get something from his car when he saw her. She was sitting in the stairwell, her head in her hands, her small frame racked with sobs. He instantly knew what was wrong. He sat down beside her, and she moved away from him. He put an arm around her shoulders and she tried to struggle, but he wouldn't let her, simply bringing her to him. The very least he could do. Against her better judgment, she put an arm around him and cried into his chest.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, the words almost strangled in his throat. She nodded, and when the tears were gone, she sat up, extricating her arms from around him. She left tear and mascara stains on his shirt, almost a reflection of her face just above his heart.
She didn't say anything, just got up and left the stairwell. He sat there for a few moments. He was so close to the bottom, he could almost make it out, like an abyss that came up to his knees. Never before could Jim Halpert say he actually hated himself, but now, now Jim was there, hating the body and soul he had. It hurt, this hate that he knew he shared with the woman who left her tears on his heart, the tears he caused. He wondered how many tears she had shed over him. Once, he heard a cliché, that the only man worth a woman's tears is the man who won't cause them. He wasn't worth her tears, wasn't worth her.
He wanted to cry the evil he thought lived in his heart, but found himself dead inside.
After a few minutes he went back into the office. Pam was sitting at her desk, her face red and splotched from her crying. She looked up at him as he walked in, her eyes glassy and a weak smile that churned his bowels.
He sat at his desk and knew she was watching him. He glanced up and saw another woman watching him, though he didn't feel her eyes. He never could. He didn't meet Karen's eyes, simply looked back at his computer and managed some sales, automatically going about his job.
Closer to five, Karen came up and sat on his desk. He knew it was a violation, she should be there.
"So, when're you coming over tonight?" she asked.
"I'm not," he replied, his voice dull.
"What?"
"I'm not."
"Jim, we've been planning tonight for a while, now. You knew about tonight. God, Jim, we need to talk."
"No."
"No?"
"No more talks. We're done, Karen. Hate me all you fucking want, but I can't do this anymore." By "this", he meant everything.
"Bastard," she said in a harsh hiss. She jumped to her feet, grabbed her purse from her desk and left the office. He went back to his computer, not even seeing the looks the office was giving him, but feeling those eyes on his back.
At five, Pam quickly left, needing to think, needing to get everything sorted out again. She needed to rebuild. Jim, he sat at his desk for a bit, trying to clear his mind of anything there and failing. Finally, he got up, grabbed his messenger bag, and went to his car, stopping at the liquor store on his way home for a bottle of bourbon.
When he got home, the dropped his suit coat and bag on the floor by the door. Mark was home, but he was in his room on the bottom floor, the door closed, probably spending some private time with his girlfriend. The hate Jim had for himself just grew. He opened the bottle and took a big sip. He always loved that first drink, the tingle on his tongue and burn down his throat. He took another drink, than another. He took the stairs up to his room, finishing off the bottle as he crossed the threshold.
Looking at the empty bottle, he had a sudden itch. He went to his bathroom and locked the door. He took a deep look in the mirror, taking in everything he could see. There he was, that stupid, cruel, sick motherfucker. In a quick motion, he crashed his forehead against the mirror, shattering it instantly.
Suddenly dizzy, he dropped to the floor, sitting Indian. Parts of the mirror were all over the floor. He picked up a big piece and looked in at himself, seeing the blood he didn't feel flowing down in spider webs across his face.
He laughed at the crimson mask. He laughed at the sad fuck he was. He laughed at how sharp that shard of glass was. He laughed as he held the shard and flicked it across his left wrist, than the right. He laughed as he got more and more lightheaded. He laughed as he heard Mark calling his name, than beating on the door. Then, he wasn't laughing anymore, and everything was gone, and he was alone in the nothing.
