Amanda
The car is silent, the white noise thrumming against the slow numbing of my mind with a strange vibration. The aftermath of our arguments have always been like this - explosion after explosion, followed by this weightless, spacey existence, as if we're both wondering what it will be like to float away from each other forever, lost and empty.
The rain patters at my window, and when I gaze out, I can watch each single drop hit the window, then fly away, a meaningless speck of evaporation that is gone in instant to the stronger force of gravity. Am I the speck, or am I the wind?
I close my eyes over the slow burning of tears. I don't want to cry anymore, but every time reality pokes me with insistent fingers I can hardly stand to remain so brutally stoic. I've tried to brave my way through her disappointment and her anger before, but it's never produced a result worth living for; but now, for all my sobbing and despair, I've achieved nothing more than a paltry caress. Her hand upon my cheek for that moment would have been something I might've lived for in the past, but now it means nothing.
I feel the car slow, and turn a corner. When we roll to a stop, I open my eyes slowly. The street lights glimmer through my moistened gaze, and beyond, the safety of my apartment building calls me. Sitting forward, I dash at the tears before she can notice, and unlatch the seatbelt.
"Thanks for the ride." I whisper in a raspy tone, barely glancing at her as I grab the door handle.
"Amanda, wait." Her voice is low and stiff, though she hides her emotions well.
When I flick my eyes towards her, her brow is drawn, her gaze conflicted, but she hasn't shed a tear since we left the bar.
"What?" I ask, gruffly.
"Let me walk you up." She suggests after a moment of hesitation.
"This is my apartment building. I'm sure I'll be fine." I reply, turning towards the door once more, determined to make my escape.
Maybe for tonight, I can fall into bed and sleep through the hours of anxiety and hopelessness that are sure to await me once the door falls closed me behind and I find myself alone. I want nothing more than to find a peaceful oblivion, but she can't stop herself, even when she's vowed to drive the rest of my life to ruin.
"Amanda." She repeats, and I feel her hand on my arm, almost a quiet, desperate plea.
"Jesus," I mutter with a scoff, "Fine."
I shove the door open, and step out into the rain, ignoring the fact that I'm pathetic. Would I really take this as some kind of sign that there's still hope for my career? What part of me would cling to some silly hope that she'd change her mind? Maybe, I am still drunk.
She steps around the nose of the car and reaches my side. I can sense her hesitation, as if she's about to speak, and I quickly take away the possibility by walking briskly towards the building. I keep my head down as we reach the gate and I punch in the code.
As we head towards the stairs, her proximity to me grows heavy, an insistent claustrophobic feeling clogging my airways. Though I still feel sluggish from the alcohol and emotional exhaustion, I jog quickly upwards, praying that once we're at my door she'll leave me alone. I can't take much more of her presence, the veiled look of hurt and guilt hiding in her dark eyes. I don't want to collapse into her again, knowing that she'll refuse to hold me.
The sound of our boots hitting the stairs in a disjointed tandem are like a panicked heartbeat in my ears, and I find myself gasping as I reach the top, hardly able to breathe.
I spin around, ready to order that this is far enough, but she looks up too late. Her body rushes into mine and she grabs onto me as we stumble back into the wall.
"I'm sorry-" She begins at the exact moment I struggle to speak.
"Olivia-..."
Emotion rushes over me as our eyes clash in the dimly lit hall, and I can see her own tears scintillating off the pewter light. Her hands clutch down on my arms, her gaze darting across my expression almost frantically. I can feel my heart clamoring in my chest, my breath rushing from me in quick, trembling exhales as her body seems to weigh down with increasing pressure upon me.
There's bare seconds between our sudden rushed exchange and the physical contact that comes next, but it feels like excruciating minutes that drag out with each raspy breath echoing in my ears. Then, suddenly, she's crumbling, crushing into me. Her hands are quaking as she grabs my face, fingers digging into my hair. Her mouth captures mine, quick and hard, sending me reeling. I'm frozen beneath her, my hands grasping at the electric air around us while the rush of undiluted passion sparks stinging tears behind my tightly closed lids.
My whole body is screaming at me to react, to clutch her close in return, so hard that she won't ever be able to leave; but in my mind, the agony can only shred what's left of my heart into even tinier pieces. She'd grind what's left of my self worth into dust, only to pick me up like this and kiss me in the dawn of the eleventh hour?
I finally move, my hands rigidly grasping her shoulders with quaking resistance. Her mouth is searing me through with desperation, riddling me with each note of this swan song until I can't take any longer.
She breaks away from me, her head bent as she pants rapidly, her hands still tangled in my hair. My own fingers are rigid at her shoulders, my mouth tingling from the fervor if her kiss.
"Just give me a sign, Amanda." She whispers, huskily, at last. "Anything. Just don't make me do this to you."
For a moment, I can't speak. The taste of her is still on my tongue, lingering across my lips, and it's hard to turn it all to poison when she's been nothing but an antidote to me for so long, but the sweetness has soured, and I can't bear to swallow it.
"I-if you ever loved me…" I whisper, haltingly, "let me go."
I feel a tremble go through her, followed by a sharp exhale. She remains against me for several, long seconds, and I can feel the emotion welling up in my chest through each and every one. I clench my teeth against the tears that seek to find their voice, and use the last of my strength to push her back. She steps back slowly, dragging her hands across her face before clasping them over her quivering lips. In the dim light of the hall, her watery gaze pleads with me. Her voice need not to be heard to travel through space and time, but I can't listen any longer.
I push myself unsteadily away from the wall, and drag the back of my hand across my mouth, removing the final traces of her saliva. Her eyes are heavy upon me, and I know she's still waiting for some affirmation that I will bend to her will. It won't come.
"Go do what you want, Olivia." I finally whisper raspily.
Her eyes widen, her face twisting in pain at the meaning of my words, and I turn away before her expression can strike me with the guilt that is well deserved. My hands are shaking as I fumble for my keys, and desperately shove it into the lock of my apartment door.
"Amanda…" She tries one more time, her tone strangled as she steps towards me again.
"I said go!" I cry out, turning to gaze at her with a watery glare. "Go fucking do what you want! If you want to destroy my life, then go fucking do it. Do it until it makes you sick!"
Her face full of shock and horror blurs before my eyes and I spin away, wrenching the lock open. Shoving inside, I slam the door behind me, and lean heavily against it. I can hear my breath rasping against my ears, and the sobs bubble up my throat, unchecked.
I hear her call my name, her voice rising to an uneven, unhinged crescendo. Her fist bangs once on the door, and I flinch, biting down hard on my lower lip to stop the sounds of my crying from reaching her ears. Reaching back with a wobbling grip, I twist the deadbolt, securing the barrier between us. Sucking in shallow, panicked breaths, I slide down against the door and bury my head in my arms. I force myself not to hear her pleading from beyond the other side until everything falls silent.
The unsettling quiet blankets the apartment, save for the sound of the refrigerator clicking on a few yards away in the kitchen. Still, I don't move. I crouch there on the floor until my legs begin to ache from lack of circulation, and the tears have made dried paths down my cheeks.
In a daze, I drag myself up from the floor and walk to the bedroom. A numbness has overtaken my body, and as I crawl in bed, the remaining effects of the alcohol seize my weary mind, dragging me to a sleep that neither restful nor peaceful.
When I awake again, I'm viscerally aware of the dreams that tossed me to and fro, filled with nightmares of her, of IAB, of the addiction that has taken over my life.
Sitting up, I dig in my pocket. There's $84, crumpled up in a few twenties and ones. It's enough for one more night.
xxxxx
2 Months Later
It's been over two months since the night she leveraged her ultimatum. A whole sixty-six days, and I wonder if the devil's number is some kind of horrible omen, that maybe tonight will finally be the night she decides to turn me in. Everyday, I expect to see IAB at my desk when I walk in to work, and every night when I sit down at the table, I try to convince myself that I'm doing this because if I can win just enough to pay off my debts, then maybe I can get out.
I used to think I could quit gambling tomorrow if I wanted to, if my situation got bad enough, but my perception of 'bad enough' changed day to day, the more intense the obsession became. I knew I'd lost sight when I was on my knees in an alleyway in order to stave off the mounting debt. Olivia never knew about that night, but she doesn't know a lot of things. In her mind, I can simply walk away, but when half a dozen bookies on the West End have your name on an envelope in their desk, walking away isn't so simple. Now, for every minute of the day, I wish that it were.
Maybe, I had finally understood that night in the bar that I really did loathe this wretched addiction. Maybe, it was even before she called me into her office with that photo that I realized that the excitement of gambling had turned to dread. Instead of flying high, I'd find myself crashing to the ground again and again, unable to disentangle myself from the pain, even when it was at its worst. It's often now that the night ends in a flood of tears while I'm bent over the toilet, purging the alcohol that had washed down the bitterness of the evening's escapades. So many times, lying on the bathroom floor, I've tried to reach for the phone, for the only person that's ever tried to give me a second chance, only to remember her words: This is a wake up call, Amanda. The last one I'm going to give you.
The next day when I would see her at the precinct, I'd grapple with the concept that I love her, and that she could destroy me. Every day that she doesn't report me is one more day to long for her instead of hate her, and I can barely stand the back and forth. My heart is tired and stretched thin, and most nights I want to just go to her, and confess how fucking exhausted I am. But I can't. I'm nothing to her as long as I have this addiction. I may be nothing to her for the rest of my life, and I'm sure that her hesitation at handing me over to IAB is born from some strange reminiscence of the time that she did love me rather than a present awareness of our feelings towards each other.
Even if I had some small hope of her still loving me, I can't escape all the memories of her screaming at me that's she's not my savior, not my reason to find sobriety again, not even my lover anymore. If I am ever going to get out it's going to be by the strength in my own hands, and on some days I feel there's nothing left.
Some days, I wake up, so angry with myself, and with gambling that I spend hours plotting on how to escape, while other days, I wonder at the point of even trying. If I'm already drowning in the middle of the ocean with no shoreline in sight it might be less painless to simply dip my head beneath the water of my own volition. Still other days, a resolute anxiety grips me, reminding me of everything I have to lose should I fall from this carefully balanced blade. I'm frozen with the fear of my life ending in either prison or a never-ending enslavement to gambling. These days drive me to the table more often than the anger or depression as I cling to the slim thought that one day I could win enough to walk away, debt-free, just as Oliva wants me to.
Tonight is the final hours of one of those days.
Tonight, day sixty-six, I bolster my failing confidence by dressing in a bold, flared, white blouse, and blood orange lipstick. I keep my chin up as I ride the old, cage like elevator to my destination. I've only been to this gambling room a few times, but the level of security is impeccable, and I'm confident Olivia wouldn't be able to track me to this location if she so desired.
After gaining entrance, I find a table, and immediately pull out the crumpled box of cigarettes from my back pocket. Sticking one between my lips, I search my pockets for my lighter.
"Need a light?" An accented voice next to me inquires.
I glance over to see handsome, middle aged man offering me his flickering lighter. I've seen him here before, and while we've never been at the same table, I've noticed him glancing in my direction.
"Thanks." I murmur, leaning in to allow the tip of the cigarette to meet the lighter.
Typically, I take advantage of any man that stares at me for too long over his cards. His distraction means a better chance of my winning, but tonight it doesn't come so easily. The queasy feeling that followed me here hasn't left, and I find it difficult to scrounge up some flirtatious exchange.
"A drink for you?" He asks with a smile.
"Sure." I reply, forcing nonchalance. "Whiskey on the rocks."
As he calls for the waitress, I notice his own drink is already nearly gone, and his chips much in the same condition. Perhaps, I won't need to do too much to outsmart this particular patron tonight, and I'm relieved for the small favor.
The dealer is laying out the cards by the time my drink arrives, and I try to refocus as I pick up my hand. Squinting my eyes at the numbers and symbols, I do my best to strategize despite the apprehensive feeling in my gut. The paranoid half of my brain skitters off in other directions, nudging me to check my surroundings, but I can't look suspicious when I'm in the middle of a round. I eagerly take several sips of the whiskey, hoping to dull the sharp edges of anxiety prodding at my stomach.
Halfway through the hand, however, frustration is beginning to seize me. I'm already down more than I arrived with, and I'm starting to wonder if I should call it a night. The nagging sense of alarm hasn't cleared from chest, even beneath the soothing hand of alcohol and nicotine, and I'm panicked to realize that my concentration is becoming lost beneath the waves foreboding.
Come on, get it the fuck together. I tell myself, sucking at the cigarette to bolster my determination. I can't afford to forfeit or lose tonight.
Glancing up at the dealer, I blow out the smoke, and order, "Hit me."
"You do know you have a sixteen against a dealer's three?" He comments with a raised brow.
"Yeah," I snap in return, "How about you count your cards and I'll count mine."
Despite my quick, sarcastic remark, my heart is pounding in my chest. I'm taking a risky chance that could either save me or ruin me, though the latter is more likely; but I have to do something. My mind has been turning all day, my sense of trepidation unexplainably intense.
From beside me, I hear my gambling partner exclaim, boisterously. He's only grown more drunk since I arrived, and though he's been wise enough to keep his hands away from me, I notice out of the corner of my eye that the young waitress he has around the waist isn't so lucky. I've seen plenty of distasteful things behind these closed doors, some I am not proud to have done nothing about, but I've learned to keep my eyes on my own cards in order to guard my identity.
"Mmmm…" He growls, and in my peripheral I can see him nuzzling her. "How about a kiss, huh? And one for my new friend?"
My stomach sinks as I realize he's referring to me. I'm ready to give him a quick reprimand, a refusal of his offer, but when I look up, I'm not ready for the girl staring back me, her gaze kindling with recognition.
Our eyes lock, and we stare at each other for a long moment as the culmination of the unsettling premonitions of this night collapse upon me all at once, hitting me with all the force of a speeding train in one, single second. I could tell myself all the lies I want - she doesn't recognize me, she won't rat me out as a police officer, Olivia won't find out - but I know the truth, and the meaning of it flashes before my eyes with a chilling doom.
Clare Wilson knows exactly who I am, and short of turning back time, there's not a goddamned thing I can do.