Wait for the booze to do its work. Wait for the memories to blur, for the pain in my chest to slip away.
I stare at my cast for like the hundredth time since coming back to my room. She’d tattooed the entire thing, filled in every available space of white with fictional creatures and their fake little worlds. I check out every line she sketched, every inch she colored in while we talked. Talked about us. Talked about who we were to each other. Who we are.
I know now that it was all a lie.
She was just drawing out the myth.
Before I know it, I’m slamming my forearm against the edge of the counter, cracking the cast and breaking it into bits, tearing it from my skin. White powder is coating the dark blue surface, chunks of plaster are littering the floor, ribbons of gauze are trailing from my arm in tatters, and I look like a deranged mummy. My pale, pickled, smelly arm comes into view, the scars a deep pink from where the bone protruded through my skin.
And it hurts.
She actually did it. She chose him instead of me. It’s over.
I can’t do this. I can’t play this game with her anymore. I’m completely annihilated, and this isn’t the first time she’s crushed me. I always knew I loved her, always made myself remember. I just never thought anything could come of it. We were kids, for chrissakes. But we’re not kids anymore. I thought that would mean something, make it bigger somehow, give us the chance we’d denied ourselves all those years ago.
But she doesn’t want me.
And I can’t have her.
And there it is.
I allow myself to remember everything. Every moment we’ve shared since the first second I saw her sitting in that desk in English class, right on up to her lips on mine a few hours ago. Every look, every laugh, every kiss, every touch.
And then I make myself forget.
I sever her memory like a limb off a tree, like an arm from my body. It was a part of me, but not anymore. It’s been cut off. Buried. Gone forever.
She is dead to me.
Layla Warren, you are no more.
I slam down another two bottles of whatever, and before my brain can step in, I whip one across the room. It bounces off an upholstered chair and pings against the TV. But it doesn’t even cause a crack in the screen before dropping to the carpet and rolling under the coffee table.
The tiny snap isn’t nearly big enough for the madness I’m feeling.
I’m feeling bigger. I’m feeling louder.
I stomp to the living room and rip a drawer from the side table, discus-throwing it at the television with a roar, where it connects with a spectacular crash, the wood splintering apart on its way to the carpet. It is quickly followed by the TV, which cracks face-first onto the floor, its descent causing the armoire that housed it to pull away from the wall in a Smooth Criminal lean, tethered to the studs by a vinyl safety restraint. I shove the remains of the TV out of the way, knocking over one of those fucking Wilmington Blue easy chairs. I grab hold of the top of the armoire, using my full weight to unleash the tether in a fantastic rip, pulling the massive thing down where it crashes and flattens almost completely to the ground. Surprisingly, the bulky piece of furniture hasn’t broken apart upon its landing, but the coffee table hasn’t fared as well.
I stand with my hands in fists at my hips, chest heaving, the alcohol and adrenaline coursing through me, taking in the whole demolition site. The throbbing in my broken arm has exploded into a sharp, stabbing pain that drowns the ache in my chest. It’s an improvement.
The room is trashed. Such a beautiful disaster.
I head back to the mini fridge and slam down another bottle of whatever just as the knocking starts. For a second, I pathetically hope it’s her, but then I hear the voice of Jeffrey, the hotel manager. “Mr. Wiley? Is everything okay in there?”
Yeah. Sure, buddy. Everything’s peachy.
Fuck ‘em. I crack open another bottle as Jeffrey pounds on the door again. “Mr. Wiley!”
“Go away!”
“Mr. Wiley, I’m sorry, but we’ve received a few phone calls about some excessive noise up here. Are you sure everything’s alright?”
This guy.
I storm over to the door and whip it open clumsily, but violently enough that Jeffrey takes a step back. Or maybe I just look like enough of a maniac that I’ve scared him. Good.
“I told you I’m fine!”
Jeffrey peeks past me into the room. I know it isn’t fine.
“Mr. Wiley… your room…”
“Thass right, pal. My room. My fugging hotel, actually. So I did a li’l remodeling. So what?”
I know I’m slurring, and I sound like a dick. I know I am a dick. And Jeffrey’s taken care of every detail for me since the minute I checked into this place. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s not the one who stood me up tonight. I can always count on Jeffrey.