Remember Me?

Chapter Fourteen

Happy New Year!

Okay, seriously, when do we stop saying that? Is it the end of January or half way through? :D

Anyway, here's the next chapter, by request.

Just a head's up, it's quite depressing and sensitive so if you can't handle that, please don't read this chapter. I don't want anyone bawling over my work, it would make me sad :(

So, please enjoy this chapter as much as you possibly can. It was very difficult for me to write also, as I wanted to get everything right.

-Bex. 'xo

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 *WARNING - SENSITIVE TOPIC*

“No Caleb, I’m sorry honey, I haven’t heard from him. I’m going to head over there right now. Keep your chin up. Okay... Bye Caleb.”

Amelia hung up the phone on Caleb Goldstein and sighed. This was the day that the Goldstein’s, Blake in particular, had been dreading.

Today was the anniversary of Brooke Goldstein’s death, their mother.

Amelia had been trying to distract Blake from it all week, but whenever he enquired the date, he would sigh a little, the light leaving his eyes.

Amelia drove quickly to Blake’s house, pounding on the door.

“Blake! Blake, honey, it’s me, Mia. Can you open up sweetie?”

No answer.

Amelia bent down, retrieving the key from underneath the doormat and unlocking the door.

The first things that met her eyes were papers, lots of papers. They were scattered all over the corridor like autumnal leaves. Amelia weaved her way through the papers cautiously.

“Blake? Blake, it’s me...”

Then she spotted him.

He was slouched against the sofa, a bottle of vodka in his hand. He was wearing a shirt and trousers; the shirt was undone at the top, his tie loose around his neck. His hair stuck up in all directions.

“Blake?”

He looked upwards and she gasped. A day or two’s stubble lay heavily on his cheeks, his eyes were bloodshot and there was a large gas across his right cheek.

He smiled weakly, “Hey! You want some?” he held up the bottle, rolling up his sleeves.

“Blake sweetie, give me the bottle please.” She went to grab the bottle from his hands, but he held it to his chest.

“NO!” his whine reminded Amelia of a small boy.

She frowned, “Wait right there.” She ran upstairs to Blake’s ensuite and returned with antiseptic fluid and cotton wool from his medicine cupboard.