Chapter One: Piano Man
And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinkin' alone
~Piano Man, Billy Joel
He was staring at the empty glass sitting in front of him, slowly twirling what was left of the amber liquid around, his gaze unwavering. He knew the blond girl he had been talking to earlier was probably hanging around in the back of the bar, waiting for him to join her as he had promised, but he couldn't find the energy to get up of his stool. He downed the liquor in one shot, motioning to the bartender that he wanted another one.
People around him had told him that he got what he deserved, what was coming for him. He knew they were right. She had told him that she couldn't forget what he did, that it would always be a shadow hanging over their relationship so she had broken it off with him. He knew he had let her down, let himself down by doing what he did. He knew he had broken every promise he had made her, but that didn't mean he didn't still love her like crazy. That didn't mean he knew where to go from here.
The bartender put down a new glass of whiskey in front of him, and he immediately brought the glass to his lips to take a sip, and another one, hoping salvation and peace hid in the bottom of his glass, but knowing he wouldn't find it there. If that would've been the case, he'd have found it months ago, but even knowing that didn't keep him from trying, chasing the temporary numbness being wasted brought him.
But even alcohol didn't seem to be able to numb his thoughts tonight, instead it just made them scream louder and louder at him, never relenting, always blaming him.
He'd never had it easy, when his mother had died, his father had blamed him and his brother for her suicide, claiming they had been too hard on her. Every night his father would come home in a drunken stupor and he would cuss them out. He'd had it harder than is brother, where his brother was the spitting image of his father, he always reminded the man of his dead mother. His father would beat him up, trying to make his face look less like Lillian's, though he would gladly take the blows if it meant keeping his little brother safe. He'd taken countless beatings, but he'd always had something to live towards: when he turned eighteen he could get himself and Stefan out of there. Now though, when she left him, all he could feel was a dark despair.
Staring at the umpteenth glass of whiskey in front of him, he couldn't help but think how ironic it was that he had ended up the same as his old man, trying to drink himself into an early grave.
He could feel his head spinning, his limbs weren't working like they were supposed to and he almost dropped his whiskey. He knew he was swaying on the stool he was sitting on and the bartender looked a bit worried that he was going to puke. That's probably why, when he asked for another drink, the man said he should probably be getting home for the night. Not in the mood to start an argument, he jumped – or rather stumbled – of the stool and once he regained his balance he started swaying towards the exit. He could hear the bartender behind him ask him whether he needed to call him a cab, but he ignored the man and kept walking.
When he staggered on the street he vaguely noticed the rain and remembered he had left his jacket in the bar. He debated going back inside to get it, but as a wave of nausea hit him he forgot all about it and puked all over the sidewalk. As he stood with one hand against the wall, emptying the contents of his stomach he thought about what his father would think of him, what she would think of him, had they seen him now. His father would've told him he'd expected nothing more, she probably wouldn't even care.
His father had been right about him, he was worthless. He couldn't even be what she had needed him to be. She had been the most important person in his life, and he hadn't been able to be the man she deserved.
When he was certain there was nothing left in his stomach he continued his way to his apartment, often stumbling over cracks in the sidewalk or narrowly missing obstacles like mail boxes and street lights. He struggled to get the key in the keyhole when he realized he was trying to open the door with the key to his mailbox. Rumbling through his keys he tried to ignore the key he knew would open the door to her apartment, wishing he could just show up there instead and she would take him back in with open arms.
When he finally managed to open the door he took the elevator up to his floor, not trusting himself to get up the stairs. On his floor there was only one other apartment, belonging to a nice guy named Matt and his sister Vicky. He couldn't see light coming out from under their door, so he assumed they were sleeping already.
He opened his door and tried to close it, but in his drunken haze he didn't notice that he had dropped his keys and they were stopping the door from closing entirely.
He could feel his stomach lurch again so he made a beeline for the toilet. After emptying his stomach for a second time, he rested his head against the cool ceramic of the toilet, hoping the cold would somehow make him feel better. As his head lulled to the side, he could feel himself crashing into the bathroom floor, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore, he just wanted this awful feeling to be over.
From the corner of his eye, he could see the razor blade he had used this morning to shave himself laying next to the bathroom sink. The metal of the razor had never looked shinier, and it felt wrong to him that something so bright could still exist near him. He destroyed all the bright things in his life. He picked the blade up, meaning to throw it aside so that its offensive shine wouldn't bother him anymore, but when he took it in his hand, he couldn't seem to bring himself to put it down again. He just watched the blade, seemingly fascinated by it.
Before he even knew it, he had put the blade against the wrist of his other hand and he'd made a superficial incision in the skin. He could see some blood dripping out of it and he couldn't help but feel like it released the tension in his body he'd been feeling for the last few months.
Desperate to get more of the tension out, he put the blade against his wrist again and he made a new incision, a little deeper this time. The blood poured out of the wound and he could feel himself relax more and more.
He knew he shouldn't be doing this, he knew where this would take him, but he just couldn't bring himself to stop, making more and more incisions in his wrist, going deeper with each cut he made. A little voice in his head told him that he should stop, that he would bleed out, but that voice was quickly silenced by a voice that sounded a lot like his father's, telling him that he was worthless anyway, that nobody would miss him should he go through with it.
The voices in his head kept getting louder, yelling at each other, yelling at him and loudest of all he could hear her voice, thick with tears, telling him that it was over between the two of them. She had always been his rock, she had always been the only one that saw the good in him, the real him he had tried to hide for so long. Without her, there was nothing he could do but give in to the voice of his father, telling him the world would be much better off without him in it.
It wasn't a conscious decision he had made, there had never been a moment he had decided he would go through with it, but when he switched the blade to his injured hand, right before he would cut down one last final time, he knew this was the only thing he could do, the only possible outcome for him.
He was pretty certain the cut had been deep enough, because the edges of his vision had already started to go black. He knew it wouldn't take long now and his last thought was of her, of how beautiful she had looked when she looked at him with love in her eyes, a sight he was sure he would never see again.
If he had closed his eyes a little later, given in to the darkness a little later he would have heard Matt come in, he would have heard the shocked intake of breath, he would have heard Matt yelling out his name while dialing 911, but as it was the only thing heard, was Elena telling him he would finally be at peace.
Soo, first chapter… Hope you all enjoyed it! There are a couple things I would like to say.
First of all, I'm not a native English speaker so I'm sure my story is full of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes, which is why I'm still looking for someone to be my Beta.
Second of all, I don't have any personal experience with depression so all my information is coming from the internet. I hope I don't offend anyone in my portrayal of what Damon is going through or how it his handled. This story is written for entertainment purposes and is just meant to kill boredom (especially during the Covid-19 problems all over the world).
I hope you enjoyed reading it, please review, it would really brighten up my day!