Sin-bin

Chapter 35 - Marical

I have 58 missed calls, 30 voicemails, and 83 text messages when I finally leave the offices. 

My phone has finally stopped its constant ringing, and everything in me wants to just power it off all the way so nobody can reach me, and I can't see anything anyone is saying. But I have to be able to be reached by the PR team and Hayden at any time, so I have to keep it on. I toss it with little fanfare into the passenger side seat. 

As usual, I pass what feels like dozens of liquor stores and bars on my way home. This time, however, with my bones tired and my head pounding, I pull into a shitty one that has cracking cement walls and faded, outdated alcohol advertisements pinned to the windows. If the clerk recognizes me, he makes no indication. He, too, seems to have little life in him as he scans the bottles and reads me the price. I forgot how expensive alcohol is. 

They clink and threaten to break each other the whole ride home from my passenger seat. I worry the bag will break when I carry them to the elevator and watch as the floor numbers slowly change on the ride up. My eyes burn from being dry after being flooded with tears for so long, and my head feels like a sledgehammer was driven through my frontal lobe. 

I just want to hide and forget it all. I want them to publish whatever the fuck they need to to get people off my back and then never show my face again in public for a few months, at least. I just want to forget how my body hurts from the anxiety, fear, and sorrow. I want to remember how sweet of bliss it is for your body to be told how to feel by chemicals and liquids. I want that sweet haze. I remember when I felt unsteady and happy again. 

I kick off my shoes in the entryway, tossing my coat and keys on the ground on top of them. My apartment is silent and empty like it should be. I should be alone. I'm fated to be alone. I deserve to be alone. I don't deserve to be loved. I don't deserve to be held or appreciated or anything. I don't deserve Dallas. I don't want Dallas. I want to be normal and drunk and happy. 

I stumble, as if I'm already drunk, to the bedroom where I plan to rot away forever and charge my phone so Hayden can tell me when the statements are going out. But to my surprise, and maybe my horror and anger, there is a body curled up underneath my comforter. 

It's turned away from me, positioned in a circle with red hair facing down. I can see that he's wearing clothes again based on the blue t-shirt that peaks out from under the comforter. He almost looks fake. Like those fucking dogs statutes made to look real but literally never move that I used to want because my dad wouldn't let us have a real dog. 

Part of me wants to go over there, push back his hair, and kiss his forehead as he sleeps peacefully. But, unfortunately, a bigger part of me is agitated and pissed off and fucking tired of it all. 

"What the fuck are you still doing here?" My voice is loud and raw, indicating that i cried at sooem point in the near past. 

The body shifts and then unfolds fast, head whipping around to see me. His hair is a fucking mess, and his face is red. So are his eyes, big and brown and red. His lips are first agape in surprise but then flutter around as he stumbles over his words at the same time he stumbles out of bed.

"Marical! I tried calling you and texting you, but your line was always busy and I heard that you needed to have a meeting to address everything, and I didn't want to bother but I was worried and I didn't want you to be alone in this, and—"

"I told you to get the fuck out an hour ago, Dallas," I startle myself. For the first time in my life, I remind myself of my dad. Cold. Angry. Blamless. I want to hate myself for it, but my head hurts too much to pay attention to it. 

I just want to be alone and drink and cry, but here he is, sweet enough not to want me to be alone when I come home. I can't help but feel agitated by the way his eyes start to gloss over with tears. He doesn't fucking deserve to cry. It isn't his fucking life that was upended and published all over the fucking internet. It isn't his career, and his image is getting slandered and slaughtered by everyone. It isn't his life that is fucking over all over again.