Next installment. Not very happy with it. Writer's block...ahhh! Lemme know what ya think, and keep those great reviews comin'!!
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He now understood the appeal of the things he was so against. The appeal of losing yourself, and drowning your sorrows in a hazy, alcohol induced-stupor. He understood the release, the freedom of being able to say what he so desperately wanted, needed to say. Fire burned in his veins, fueling him with power and confidence he had never felt. The ability to lose yourself and ultimately, the ability to get some of yourself back.
With each sobering step he took, he came to realize two things. One, she had not followed him. Which wasn't really all that surprising. What could you say to something like that? Nothing, he knew, at least not just yet.
Secondly, it hadn't been as good for her as it had for him. She didn't feel empowered, or free of a burden that had haunted her for years. Now she was not only the recipient of harsh words, but she carried the burden lifted from his chest.
It wasn't hardly fair, and part of him wanted to turn back around and run in the he had just come from. Still, the saner, sober part of him carried his legs onward, an action he knew he'd be glad for later.
He needed something. What did he need?
Another drink? No. Though his head was beginning to clear, and he longed to forget the scene that had just unfolded, he was loath to use alcohol again, so soon after the first time as a coping mechanism. That was inviting disaster, addiction, liver disease.
He smirked as he walked, not knowing where he was going, or why it was so funny.
Losing the smirk, he touched a finger to the side of his chin, thumb to the other in classing thinking pose, musing. What was it he needed? Closure...did he have closure? Was that, yelling at her, screaming what he'd needed for so long to say, closure?
He wasn't sure. The walking dictionary, user of large and rarely understood words, was at a loss.
Was it closure?
He didn't suppose, but what could he do? There was nothing more he could say, it was up to her to take it from there. Wherever she wanted to take it, he would have to trust her, let her, deal with it.
But God, more than anything he wanted to hear he footsteps pounding the pavement behind him, hear her sweet voice call out his name, beg him to stop.
It would be morning soon.
He had no idea where he was going. His legs just kept carrying him in the same direction, and his brain told him they must know what they were doing. Just relax, Travis. Don't think so much. You always think too much. You always go off on tangents and no one understands you when you speak.
No one but her.
Stop it! he finally screamed at himself.
But it was true. No one ever understood him and the vocabulary that got him a 760 on his verbal SAT. No one ever understood the riddle-like quotes he seemed to have for every occasion. Not his views on life, not his vies on death. Not his views on love or hate or religion.
Thoughts were screaming through his head at light speed, this and that, here and there. And her. Always her.
Snap out of it, he told himself, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily. When he opened them again, he took a look at his surroundings. He was in the park, the park where they'd spent so much time sitting, talking, lying on a blanket and watching the sky.
There, in the middle of the park, in the wet grass, Travis sat down, folding his legs, feeling the dew seep into his jeans. He didn't care.
He focused his breathing. Deep, even breaths. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out.
Stop. All. Thoughts.
These thoughts, these memories. They had to stop. He was driving himself crazy.
Stop. All. Thoughts.
Slowly, his mind became blank. Focusing on his chest rising and falling, the air leaving and entering his lungs through his nose, his thoughts melted away...
Until a hand clamped down on his shoulder, breaking him from his blissfully blank state.
His heart leapt into his throat and he uttered a tiny cry of surprise, eyes shooting open.
"Travis...we need to talk..."