(Twenty One)

I went missing on Alice's birthday.

I'd never missed one before.

I didn't forget. I can't claim it slipped my mind. I knew and I didn't care.

It's hard to explain how single-minded an addict can become to someone who's not one. How every waking, breathing second is wrapped up in where you can get your next drink or hit or buzz. How rational thought evaporates, replaced by raw need.

It was a dark day in my self-centred universe. I'd managed to drag myself from the gutter to write a piece on my time in Bosnia. It was a story I wanted to tell, and for the first time in months, I felt I had a reason to get out of bed.

Some people would say my writing was an addiction too. Once I had a story, it consumed me until it spilled out onto the page like blood from a fresh wound. It was everything while I rode the buzz, but when I finished, it left parts of me empty. The small spaces I kept the memories and ideas were drained, making me somehow less. And then as if I'd not shed enough blood to get the words onto the page, the editor refused to print it. And fuck it was good. It was fucking brilliant. But he said he couldn't with all honesty, the prick, put my name in his magazine because there were concerns within the circuit about how I was conducting myself. What fucking business was that of theirs?

It was nothing to do with what anyone thought of me. They wanted to help me. I couldn't care less.

My conduct from that point on left a hole in that editor's wall and glass—along with my career—smashed on the floor.

I went from worse to hell. I found a bar, a girl and a whole host of things to shove down my throat so I could blackout. But in that blackout, I missed everything.

Alice opening her presents alone.

The celebratory meal with a place set for me, empty.

My mother crying for Alice as she put on a brave face.

My mother raging at my father, who brewed a quiet storm as another grew outside.

He set out to find me as the first snow fell.

I walk the streets for hours before returning home.

I hope that the apartment is empty. I hope that it's not. My mind is a whirlwind, and no breathing techniques or ten steps or mantras can slow it down. The one thing that can is the one thing that fucked up Emmett's life. I know it could solve everything, for a few hours at least. But the shock of seeing his life destroyed right in front of me holds that thought at bay.

Bella is asleep in my bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, one arm flung across my pillow. I don't go to her, instead grabbing a cigarette and climbing out onto the fire escape. I watch the smoke twist and curl up into the black sky and wonder what Em is doing, how he's doing. I feel helpless. I feel guilty. It twists in my stomach.

I hear movement from inside and turn to see Bella emerge from my room. She's pulled on my hoodie and is rubbing her eyes as she spots me in my usual place, wandering over to lean on the window ledge. A soft smile, and she reaches out to kiss me, turning my head to hers. She's sleep-creased and smells of my shower gel. My heart starts to pump faster, the need for her spreading like wildfire. It would be so easy to lose hours with her. But I pull back, face the street again as a frown flickers across her face.

Her voice is still rusty with sleep, "You should have woken me."

"I didn't want to," I say, flicking the cherry into the drains below.

"How's Emmett? Have you heard anything more? It's been all over the local news … are you okay?" She's nervous, and I'm making her worse because I can't meet her eyes.

I climb back in and head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. I drink it all before I answer. "I don't know. It's fucked up."

She joins me at the breakfast counter, pulling the sleeves of my hoodie down over her hands, crossing her arms. "You coming to bed?" She looks like she wants to come closer, but some primal warning system must be kicking in because she stays put.

"No."

"I can go if you want?" She's fully awake now, her demeanour switched.

"No, you can stay. I'll be out here."

I think she's going to ask why, but instead she says, "Okay. Goodnight" and goes back to my room, closing the door behind her. I want to follow, to wrap myself up in her. To forget myself for an hour or two, but I have so many thoughts racing around my head, I can't do it.

I try to piece together how Em could have got into such a mess without someone noticing. I can't make sense of it without coming back to the moment he knocked on my door. Knocked and begged me to come out. A plea I ignored like the selfish dick I am. Ignored, because I was wrapped up in another addiction. The cycle never ends, and yet again, instead of ruining my life, someone else got caught up in my shit storm.

The guilt and blame goes round and round. I flip my sobriety coin over and over in my hand. I can't keep doing this to myself and the people around me. Something's got to give.

At 5am I scribble a note for Bella, pack some things, and leave.

You can stay as long as you need.

I'm sorry.

E.

AN: I missed this place and those of you still reading. A lot.

Kim shined this chapter for me. She's brilliant x