John slammed his front door shut, shucking off his jacket and kicking off his running shoes. The house smelled like a rough mixture of different whiskeys. His brows were furrowed in anger. He threw his keys down on the sideboard against the front door. His left fist was clenched so tight this his nails left bright white crescent moons in his palm. How dare she treat him like he were some kind of goddamn charity case! He could see it in her face, that stupid look of sympathy in her eyes - it was the same condescending look that Randy and his family gave him before they had given up on him and walked away. The rage in his stomach bubbled over as he thought of his friends and family, all who had left him in his time of need. "Seriously - fuck everybody!" John shouted to no one in particular. His shouts echoed off the walls of his empty home.
He went to the refrigerator, scanning it for something to eat. These days he kept his fridge pretty empty, thanks in large part to the fact that he hardly thought of eating anymore. Every now and then his stomach growled. When that happened, he did something about it. It had been a long time since he'd been grocery shopping, though. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey out of the fridge and took a big swig. "Has to be twelve o'clock somewhere, right?" John murmured to himself, taking another swig. On the marble countertop he saw a blinking red light from his answering machine. It was the same old shit, he knew; he didn't bother to press play. Mom's worried about him, Dad wishes he could just get over it, his brothers are concerned about where his life is headed and Vince McMahon wants his top money maker back on WWE TV. John ripped the plug out of the wall and dropped the machine in the trash under the kitchen sink. With a satisfied smirk, he went to the living room, flopping down on the couch.
What pissed John off the most was the fact that the stupid barista had looked just like her. Well, except for the fact that the barista's hair was two shades of a darker blonde and her eyes were brown. He sipped on his whiskey and stared at his fiancée's photograph on top of the TV unit. The picture had been taken the night he had proposed to her at his father's Fourth of July barbecue. Those were the days when life was perfect.
The house he lived in had been her dream house, which made it his dream house. That was the only reason why he refused to sell the house; he just couldn't let it go. Tears burned behind his eyes; why did she have to be so far away? He still felt her everywhere inside of his house, despite the fact she had been gone for two years.
These days, he found the sedatives weren't working as well as they had when his road of grief had started. He found himself dreaming of her all the time, of their past dates, their lovemaking, even of being able to save her while she lay dying on the side of the road. Some nights he was just there, but he couldn't save her. Those nights were the worst. "I never should have left you," John murmured, twirling the neck of the bottle in his big hands. "It's all my fault."
Not since the loss of his grandmother had John ever felt a loss so life-changing and profound. He looked at the fake plastic Christmas tree, still set up just the way it had been the night she died. The presents were still under the tree, covered in dust. He was so desperate to cling to everything that had been hers. Everyone wanted to put pressure on him to get rid of her things from their bedroom, to move, to take down the tree and either give away or open the presents, but John just couldn't do it. John had quit talking to them, angry that they had wanted him to erase her so coldheartedly. He refused to let her go; it was just too bad that people didn't understand.
John sighed. He knew that the barista was just trying to be nice. He'd had no right to be such a dick to her, but he just couldn't help but be defensive around others. Especially around those who didn't know him but still liked to judge. Maybe he had been such a dick because he hadn't realized how much she had looked like her until she had approached him. He hadn't expected it.
"You owe her an apology, you know that right, John?" he mused to himself. He was browbeating himself over the entire scone fiasco. "How could you have not noticed she looked like her? For fuck sakes, you've seen her every day for the past two years!" She had seen him, too, obviously. It was only eventual that she would try and do something nice for him. Places used to give him free stuff all the time and none of them were places he had gone to every day for two years. He groaned. "You're a real dick, John."
He thought about the barista. Everybody had somebody at Christmas, except for John. His mother wanted him to come home, but John wasn't into it. Christmas had lost all of its meaning for him, just like the WWE had. It was nothing Vince had done; John just couldn't forgive himself for being at Survivor Series while she was dying. The last person she had seen were the paramedics who were struggling to keep her alive. It wasn't fair; he should have been there.
Would this Christmas finally be the Christmas that he opened the presents she had bought for him? Doubtful. He couldn't open them. To do that to John would be an acknowledgement of her death. His took another swig of whiskey and sighed deep, allowing his body to sink into his favourite brown leather recliner. His stomach rumbled; he should have taken the scone.
If she had recognized him, she didn't seem to say anything. "How the mighty have fallen," he thought bitterly, finishing the last of the bottle. He was slipping quickly into a drunken state of mind. Today was about to become a blur, and he didn't care. Every day was another foot towards the grave, another day closer to her. He didn't care if he remembered the rest of the journey, he was just trying to sprint towards the destination.