The Build Up To Breaking

It was 2 weeks after the accident that I realized I was no longer in the hospital. Or I'm guessing it was two weeks. I had been practically catatonic since I lost Chloe. But this morning when I woke up, I actually took in my surroundings for the first time. I was back in my room. Also, who gives a shit?

It was another few days after that, I'm not sure how many because the passage of time meant nothing to me anymore. Neither did anything else for that matter, but I digress. It was an indeterminate number of days later that I finally mustered the will to leave my room for reasons other than biological.

I shuffled down the stairs wrapped in my blanket, wearing the same dirty pajamas I'd been wearing for 'can't remember so insert random number of days here'. I stared unseeingly at my feet as each step brought me closer to the last. I stood on the first floor landing, still staring at my feet, shivering despite the blanket and the relative warmth of the house, when I heard my dad speak up next to me.

"Beca," my dad said gently, like I was a wounded bird that might try to fly off and injure itself worse if he scared it. He probably wasn't far off in his estimations.

When I didn't move, reply, or acknowledge his presence at all, he moved to stand in front of me. He raised his hands as if to touch me, but thought better of it at the last moment and let his arms drop. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and if I cared at all I'd have tried… I don't know. But I would have tried something. The rock solid wall around my emotions was holding strong. It was the only thing that kept me from breaking down completely. I knew if a single crack formed in that wall, I'd be lost forever.

I suddenly had an idea. This was miraculous because I didn't even allow myself to have thoughts let alone ideas, but this one just filtered through uninvited, but welcome nonetheless.

Without taking my eyes off of my feet, I continued my shuffle into the kitchen. I vaguely registered the presence of my father trailing behind me, but it was barely a blip on my radar. For the first time in weeks I had a mission. And I was determined, well, as determined as an emotionless husk could possibly be, to complete my noble quest.

Alcohol. Glorious, brain numbing alcohol. I trudged to the liquor cabinet, grabbed a random bottle, and was heading back to my room when my father found the courage to touch me. His hands grabbed my upper arms to stop me gently.

"Sweetheart, please don't," he begged me. When I failed to respond he tilted my chin up with his fingertip and forced me to look at him. I recognized the moment when he knew that there would be no getting through to me because his face crumpled in utter despair. I can imagine what he saw in my eyes that caused his reaction. Absolutely nothing. He released me and turned quickly away, but not before I saw the tear fall down his face. I looked back down at my feet, and went back to my room where I proceeded to drink that whole fucking bottle of heavenly oblivion and did my best to make sure it stayed inside of me instead of in the damn toilet. I wasn't entirely successful.

No one believed me. If I could bring myself to care, I'd probably be hurt. But facts are facts. If I hadn't been driving, I'd be dead. Since I'm not dead, I couldn't have been driving. Cold hard facts. Try telling that to my memories though. It was bad enough that I was crippled, consumed, and devastated by grief. Now I was also beginning to hope that I was crazy on top of it. Because the alternative was even scarier.

I'd lost a lot of weight at this point. My father could no longer be bothered to pay attention to my deteriorating mental and physical health. Ever since the day I grabbed that bottle of booze he'd seemed to wash his hands of me. That suited me just fine.

Shuffling myself downstairs became a new ritual. When I finished a bottle of booze, the next morning I'd get another one. When the booze was all gone, I started in on the medicine cabinet. Lots of good shit in there. When the pills were gone, it was mouth wash and rubbing alcohol. Anything to quiet the raging voice in my head that kept telling me that Chloe was driving. That she couldn't be dead. That I was supposed to be dead. That this god forsaken world didn't make fucking sense without her in it.

It was when I ran out of mouth wash and rubbing alcohol that it started to happen. The cracks in my walls were starting to form. I was surprisingly able to hold myself together for a couple more days after that, but that was it. The careful control I held over my emotions was done, and the breakdowns had commenced. Instantly, the guilt overwhelmed me. Because I finally acknowledged to myself that I must have killed her.

In between the panic attacks, full blown emotional outbursts, and explosions of anger aimed everywhere and nowhere, I was crying pretty much nonstop. I wasn't aware the human body was capable of producing so many tears, or surviving the emotional strain mine was currently under. Most of my shit was now broken, ripped, or shattered on my bedroom floor. My father no longer looked at me. I no longer had any visits from friends, friends of friends, or anyone else for that matter. I was completely and utterly alone.

"Hey Chlo. I miss you so god damn much it hurts. It hurts so bad," I whispered. Tears were falling down my cheeks. I was on my knees in the damp grass in front of her headstone. White lilies lay scattered in front of it. Her favorites. I bought them before I came here. I was clutching my stomach because it felt like I'd been punched in the gut. An almost constant feeling for the last few months.

"I can't do this anymore babe. I just can't. I know how disappointed you're going to be in me. I know it. But it doesn't change anything. I'm not strong enough. And I don't want to be," I choked on a sob and closed my eyes tightly. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that I got you killed. And I'm sorry for what I have to do next. I hope you can forgive me."

By now my body was being violently wracked by sobs as I stood up with damp knees and ran home. The bottle of tequila I purchased for the occasion was in my jacket pocket, and my dad's sleeping pills were hidden in the drawer of my night table. All that was left was to write the note, and hope I'd see her again.