CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE BLUE-EYED MAN
The Town
After
I am drowning. I am being held by the ankles, pulled under by something I can't see or touch or name.
Three weeks worth of pills gone in less than two. Five of my seven places are empty.
I hold the cash in my fingers, separating the bills into what I can spend and what I need to take home. To my wife.
I send Bella a quick text.
I'll be home for dinner.
She sends one back immediately.
Pick up some French bread on your way?
I stare at her words. I don't know why something so simple seems like the most overwhelming, impossible task in the world, but it does.
I backtrack up C Street and cross over to Third, making one stop on the way. I pull one last twenty from my pocket.
I spend more than I should. More than I can afford. And when I hold the bag of pills in my hand, I feel a hollow, screaming ache. They will never be enough.
I shove the bag into my pocket. The weight makes my limbs beg and plead. Like I've been treading water for hours. Like I have a pocket full of stones.
I force myself to wait. Thirty seconds. One minute, two minutes, three.
The old bakery makes the entire block smell like bread in the oven. It's too much.
I pay the plump lady with the red nose for a fresh loaf of sourdough and walk out before I suffocate.
There is a hidden lot behind the shop, with nothing but dumpsters and asphalt. I walk through the alley without letting myself think about what I'm doing.
The sun has just disappeared behind the hills, making the sky almost silver. Everything looks cold but is still hot to the touch.
I scrounge through the baggie in my pocket and hold two pills in my fingertips, pressing them so tight that my knuckles scream.
I took one earlier, telling myself it would be enough. Fucking stupid.
I don't look at them. I don't want to see what I am now.
But I do see him as I crush them in my teeth. He stares at me with those blue eyes that pierce. He has a puffy black jacket that is cleaner than the rest of him.
"What the fuck is your problem?" I spit at the blue-eyed man.
He doesn't answer or look away. His ice eyes bore into mine. I swear he doesn't even blink.
He holds his hand out, walking towards me. His yellow hair is so filthy that it looks painted on. I wish he would speak.
He gets closer and closer. I stand my ground. I am not afraid of some middle-aged, homeless junkie.
I stare at his pathetic orange face as he reaches out for the bread in my hand.
Over my dead body.
Holding the crinkly paper in a tight fist, I practically crush the fresh loaf.
I stare straight into his eyes and for a second, I don't see a monster at all. I just see a man. With nothing.
He's terrifying.
He is close enough that I can smell him. But I'm grateful to have something real that sets us apart.
He is disgusting.
And I refuse to become that man. A man who takes what doesn't belong to him. A man who has nothing left to give.
We are not the same. We will never be the same.
I slowly loosen my grip on the loaf of bread. "Take it," I tell him, contempt on my tongue.
As he holds the bread in one hand, he smiles, his rotten teeth in full view.
"Thank you," he says gruffly, nodding and backing away. Like I might snatch it back from him.
Leaning up against one of the grimy dumpsters, he slides down to the gravel. I turn away just as he begins to pick the hot bread apart. Like a fucking vulture.
I go home to my wife.
I find her in the kitchen, pulling a lasagna out of the oven. The whole house smells like marinara and melted cheese.
She has music blaring, allowing me to sneak in unnoticed. I just watch her. The way her hair hangs down her back. The way she twists it up into a ponytail. The way her body sways.
I love the way she is when she doesn't know anybody is watching her. I don't know why. It's like she carries around this something that I don't know how to name.
Maybe it's just happiness. Maybe it lives in her bones.
I watch her chop the vegetables for a salad and I can tell the exact moment she realizes I'm here. Her hips stop moving with the music. She looks over her shoulder and her smile is the best thing about today.
She only glances at me for a second. She keeps her back to me and it's because she loves when I wrap her up, her back to my chest. She says it makes her feel safe.
I cross the kitchen in seconds because I need that too.
I hold her to me, my lips to her temple. She exhales, long and low. I can feel her smile through her skin.
"When did you get so pretty?"
She laughs at me, but I mean it. I want to know.
She turns in my arms, trailing her hands over my chest. Pressing her lips to mine.
She tastes like all of the best things. And for a moment, she is all that matters. She is my whole world, even if it's only for a second.
"Where's the French bread?" she asks.
Shit.
"I forgot. I can go back out."
She searches my eyes. "Forget it. We don't need it." She kisses my face. Once. Twice. "I'm just glad you're home."
As she glances around the kitchen, I can see it in her face. How much she loves this house, this home. But it's not the same for me. It's nothing but wood and drywall and nails. This house is nothing but walls.
My home has always been where she is.
I've been staring too long. "What?" she whispers, mild concern on her face.
"Nothing. I just missed you."
She believes me, because it's true, but her eyes linger again, searching for what I'm hiding. Just for a moment. And then her smile is back and I can breathe.
We eat dinner at the dining room table and I pretend like I'm the man she married.
She keeps smiling at me. Like we're out on a date and she's wondering if I'm going to kiss her at the end of the night.
She just smiles and smiles throughout dinner, but doesn't say anything. And when I smile back she blushes and holds my gaze. It's the strangest conversation.
There is a dot of red sauce at the corner of her mouth. I want to lick it off. I laugh at the thought without meaning to.
"What?" she asks, her grin staying put.
"Nothing," I laugh.
She moves to stand, ready to clear the table, but I stop her. "I'll get it."
She just fucking smiles at me. She almost looks like she might cry. But that can't be right, because she's only happy.
She places her hand on my arm as I reach for her plate. "The dishes can wait."
She leads me up the stairs to our room. I'm not sure what's happening, but I'll take it.
At the foot of our bed, she kisses me. Like it's the last time she's ever going to kiss me. And I can't even bring myself to stop her and ask her what the fuck is going on, because it feels so good. She feels so good. We feel so good together.
Her hands are all over me, before she reaches down and pulls her shirt up and over.
And whatever I wanted to ask her is gone because she has the prettiest tits in the whole wide world. Her bra falls to the floor, leaving her bare skin and her perfect pink nipples in my hands.
"When did you get so pretty?" I ask again, my lips never leaving hers.
"A few weeks ago, I think," she whispers against my mouth.
As she begins to undress me, I lose myself in everything that she is. Until I remember a bag full of pills that I'm not supposed to need anymore.
My hands still. I tell myself to forget about them. But Bella can't find them. She can't.
I try to reach for my pocket slowly, but my hand doesn't understand slow.
And then I freeze. Because there is nothing there. My pocket is empty. It's fucking empty.
There is a fleeting moment when I want to accuse Bella of taking them from me, but I know she didn't.
She continues to kiss along my jaw, but all I can see and hear and smell is the blue-eyed man.
He is everywhere. The rage flows into my veins like poison.
"Shit."
My heart is ready to beat out of my chest and throw itself on the floor.
She looks up at me, wide-eyed and confused.
"Edward, what's wrong?"
"I have to go." I think I say it out loud.
"What?"
I try not to look at her face. "I will be right back. I promise."
"I don't understand what is so important that you have to go right this second." And now she is starting to cry. She is starting to cry and I can't even care because my pocket is empty.
"I told Emmett I'd help him with something. I will be right back."
Her eyes go black. "Emmett went home to see his parents for the weekend."
Fuck.
"I know. I told him I'd go by and take care of something in his garage." I lie, lie, lie.
And she knows. She sees me for who I am.
I watch her look away, shaking her head and refusing to speak. With her shirt in her hands, I stare at her naked back as she walks to the bathroom and slams the door behind her.
I'm down the stairs and out the door before I give myself any time to worry about the consequences of this lie.
She'll forgive me. She has to.
I start running, without the slightest clue as to where I'll find him.
I run until the streets are straight and my lungs burn bright. I end up under the freeway, surrounded by sunflowers that aren't real. There are filthy strangers in every corner. Beds made of cardboard and shopping carts piled high with worthless, plundered possessions.
Some of them shout at me; they all stare.
Panic creeps in when I realize he isn't here. I try asking around for him, but these people are tight-lipped and give me nothing.
I walk back through downtown, where only the bars and liquor stores are lighting up the night.
The smell of the bread shop still dominates the block as I pass it. I pause in front of the narrow alley that leads back to the dumpsters. He wouldn't still be there.
But I can't stop myself from walking between the tall brick buildings. The buzz of the lone street lamp drowns out my beating heart.
And then I see the motherfucker, asleep in the same spot I left him late this afternoon.
I scream at him for being a worthless thief, but he doesn't move. It's not until I'm inches from his face that I see it.
Eyes that won't close.
I freeze, haunted by the bluest blue.
Kneeling down in front of him, I nudge his shoulder. He doesn't move. All at once I see his stiff hands and his purple lips and an empty bag that is no longer filled with pills.
I can't breathe or think.
Because he's dead. He's dead.
For one second, I don't see a homeless junkie. I see a man with a wife and a house and a story. I see a man with a problem. I see a liar.
I have to save him.
I dial 911 from the pay phone in front of the liquor store. My voice shakes and my hands shake and everything shakes. He is nothing. He doesn't matter.
He is me.
I hang up before the operator asks me any more questions.
I should go home. But I can't leave him here.
There is a broken fire escape that's always down on the side of the building that sits next to the church. I've sat on this roof more times than I can count.
Except it has never seemed this high or this lonely.
I watch the police cars and the paramedics. I watch him get loaded up.
I sit on the roof for what seems like hours until there is nothing but an empty lot.
I have no concept of time as I walk back home. I'm not even sure what day it is anymore.
The lights are out in the house. I hold my hand over the cold door knob, before turning it. The guilt for leaving Bella in this dark, unlocked house seeps in with each passing second. Until I turn the knob. And it's locked.
For the first time in our marriage, the door is locked.
And I know. I know what I've done. It's all been leading up to this. My knees hit the splintered wood of the porch and it's too much to feel.
I tell myself not to cry. Crying feels like being sucked up in rolling waves, the kind that bring me to shore, only to carry me back out again.
I try to remember Bella's smile during dinner, and I realize that I don't even know her reason.
Breathing is useless. Suffocating seems easier.
A man is dead.
-HL-
A/N:
As always, Susan and Kim made this chapter infinitely better. I love them a lot.
CC threatened to kill me if I didn't update already. I kind of like living, so here it is.
I've been busy and I hate it. I'm working on finding more time to write.
Next chapter is written and will be up a week from Monday. I'd love to hear your thoughts on Edward. Is this his rock bottom?
Happy International Peace Day!