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It was already over, so why did it hurt so much? Sitting on the bed holding myself wasn't helping at all. The rooms is a mess. Why would I bother to clean when you're not going to show up.
"This place is a mess." was the first thing Jack and Andrew say as they walk in. They don't laugh when they see me on the bed.
"Come on, dude. You need a drink." Jack reassures. They pull me out of bed and force me to get dressed despite my protests. I don't want to go out.
They drag me down the street to the local bar. It's not crowded tonight. People stare as three guys stagger in from the cold. The bar tender is a friendly guy. He passes out a round. I don't want to drink it.
"It will help you forget." Andrew said. He smiles at me like nothing's wrong, but that's not true. I figure it can't hurt so I down the first drink in minutes. It barely touches the pain in my chest.
The second takes away some of the stinging. Numbers three and four take parts of my memory. I can picture her face in my head, but it's disfigured. By round five, I'm laughing like myself. Six and seven go down and I can't even remember her voice. Then, number eight hits my stomach. It all comes flooding back. I'm drunk, and the pain is back. I miss her too much. Her soft brown hair and her perfect green eyes. The way she smiles and her laugh. The long nights when we didn't do anything. Her kindness and the way she could brighten anyone's day. I can't live without that. My mind feels clear and I know what I have to do. I pull my phone out of my pocket. My friends protest, but need to tell her. Seven or eight rings later and she doesn't pick up. Of course, she won't answer my calls. She's mad at me. I try calling a few more times, but she won't answer. I'm on my feet and out the door with my friends on my heels. They are trying to get me to stop yelling your name. They think I'm crazy. I know you don't live far from here. The alcohol is getting in the way. I can picture your apartment in my mind. I pass railings and fences without my friends. They left me, but that's okay. I see your apartment and I see you through the windows. I smile to myself because you look amazing. I can't stop myself from running to the door and knocking as hard as I can. The wait is hard, but when the door opens you look surprised.
"What do you want?" you say simply. The alcohol is messing with my head again. My words are slurred and when I try to reply it sounds something like.
"Needed to see beautiful."
The broken English confuses you, but you're smart. The alcohol is heavy on my breathe.
"You are drunk aren't you?" you say. I hesitate, but nod. You roll your eyes and begin to shut the door. I stop you and look you in the eyes. I need to get these words right.
"I still love you." I say. She listens, but doesn't say anything. I wanted words, but all I heard was nothing. She shuts the door and I'm falling. My head hurts. My heart hurts. I slide to the concrete walkway. I'm sitting with my head leaning back against her door. Tears soak my face. I can't hear anything.
I'd be better off dead. I shouldn't have come here. The night seems to consume me. I'm alone and I have nothing.
The sound of someone crying hits my ears. There's no one in sight and that doesn't matter. The sound is coming from inside your house. I can't figure it out why someone would be crying in your house. Maybe it's because I'm drunk, but it almost sounds like you. How can that be when you don't love me anymore?
I get on my feet. I can't just sit here anymore. My feet carry me into town and the night takes me in like an old friend.
The newspaper flew out of her hand on to the kitchen table. She couldn't believe what she had just read, but then again the newspaper had never lied to her before. Tears start streaming down her face. The teakettle is hissing at her to turn off the fire, but she can't move. Her heart is broken in her chest. She crumbles to the floor. She can still see the fatal words on the paper.
Jonathan Smith dies in deadly car accident.
He's gone. She told him that she didn't want him and now he was gone. Forever. Her arms wrap around her legs and she becomes a tight ball on her kitchen floor. Things could have been different. She could have saved him.