Oblivion {James Rodriguez} {Book ONE}

wallow in sorrow

The warmth of my apartment instantly vaporizes the day's hardships. It is a cosy two-bedroom apartment, with a spacious living room and a conveniently-sized kitchen. The guest bedroom is a minimalist one, with a medium sized bed that has a small nightstand right next to it, a large closet with various drawers and sneaky hiding places (for special stashes) and a few pictures of beautiful scenery on the walls to liven the room up a little.

My bedroom is nothing special either. I don't really like over-the-top decoration with expensive IKEA beds and furniture. I have the exact same average bed that is in the guest room, a different nightstand and a bigger wardrobe. The pictures that hang are limited and must be of extreme value to me.

The first picture is 22-year-old me in my graduation suit clutching the certificate, standing tall and proud with both my parents next to me. It was a lovely day: slightly chilly but appropriately sunny as well. My parents were the proudest they have ever been of me; I didn't exactly have the smoothest college experience as a law student.

The pictures that follow are of slightly less value. One picture with me and my colleagues' first dinner together, one picture with me and Katie one beautiful day at State Park, and one with me and... Him. Wrapped around each other so intimately as if nothing could separate us. Little did we know...

I push the depressing thoughts out of my mind as I change into more comfortable clothes that are basically sweatpants and a tank top.

I have been living alone for two years now and honestly it is not as bad as everyone thinks it is. I was absolutely devastated when I moved in here after the incident with Carter, but it was my choice. He was so paralyzed about what he did that he didn't even react to anything. He didn't beg me to stay. He didn't fix things. He didn't even mutter a simple 'I'm sorry." But what was I expecting? "I'm sorry" is something you say when you bump into someone by accident, not when you do something as shocking as he did.

But then again, considering his career and his lifestyle, it was bound to happen. And I hate myself for thinking that the man I was so infatuated with for four years would be different.

Around me, he was so very different, though. He was gentle. Loving. Caring. Passionate. It was almost a bit too overwhelming for me at the start, because he appeared as such a nearly-perfect boyfriend that I had to take a few steps back and re-think this entire situation.

Unlike other couples, we would honestly sit down and talk about our feelings. Honest, deep, raw feelings. This is what, he believed, made up a steady relationship. "Communication and bluntness," he always used to say. "Mix them together and you'll never have to worry about one of us leaving."

When we had one of our little ritual sessions, I would sit down facing him on my couch and spill everything out. I would tell him how I hated what he does, and how I hated that I needed to live with the haunting fact that he might not come home every day. I would tell him everything that accumulated within the past few weeks and he would just sit there; listening.

That's all he did: listen. He would listen to my shameless rants about clients driving me insane, he would listen to my loud groans and immediately know it's that time of the month again, he would listen to my bizarre theories on my cases; he would simply listen when I suddenly snap for no reason and yell at him until my throat goes sore and until I could not spill tears anymore: He would listen.

That's what I loved about him. His patience with me. His persistence. His stability.

And when it was his turn to talk, he'd make sure that he looked directly into my eyes when he spoke. He would softly tell me that he hated all the feelings he made me feel; he would tell me he was sorry that he chose this lifestyle; he would tell me that, every single day, he worries about me leaving him because of the amount of stress that's being transferred to me. He tells me he gets scared, too. Really scared, sometimes.

And the funny thing is, he never cheated on me. Never, ever.

What he did was far, far worse. And till this day that fateful night replays over and over in my head, haunting me with its unbearable melancholy.

This particular man, who caused me so much sorrow and confusion and ecstasy, had somehow found his way back into my life again.

And I am not ready at all.