The Night We Met by Ruero

Chapter 20: A void of Feelings

I felt like a shell of myself, an empty vessel weighed down by the gravity of what I'd done. The realization that Derek's mother had died gnawed at me, eating away any sense of justification I had clung to. My plan, which had seemed so satisfying in the heat of anger, now felt like a cruel, unforgivable act.

The next day, I couldn't muster the energy to do anything. My body was heavy with guilt, my mind clouded by a persistent headache that refused to go away. I didn't get up for breakfast, didn't bother with lunch. Instead, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events over and over in my mind. I was suffocating in my own thoughts, trapped in a cycle of regret and self-loathing.

The room felt oppressive, the once familiar surroundings now a suffocating reminder of my own misdeeds. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in a dim, lifeless light. My desk, usually cluttered with books and notes, looked abandoned, the chaos reflecting the state of my mind. The guitar case in the corner, now empty and useless, only deepened my despair. It was supposed to be a source of comfort, a connection to something pure, but now it was just another casualty of my actions.

Finally, in the evening, a knock at the door pulled me from my stupor. I dragged myself out of bed. My reflection in the mirror by the entrance startled me—I looked as bad as I felt. My hair was a mess, my eyes were bloodshot, and my skin was pale. I looked like I hadn't slept in days.

When I opened the door, there stood Angelica, her expression shifting from concern to alarm when she saw me. "Where were you all day long?" she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

"Oh, hey, Angelica," I replied, trying to muster a smile, but it felt weak, forced.

"Are you okay?" Her eyes scanned my face, searching for any sign of the Ethan she knew.

"No, I feel kind of sick, but I'll be okay," I lied, hoping to ease her concern.

"Do you have meds?" she asked, not convinced by my answer.

"Yeah, I took meds, don't worry," I said, though the truth was I hadn't taken anything. The thought of trying to fix what was wrong with me through a simple pill seemed ridiculous.

"Do you need any help with household work or your dinner?" Her offer was genuine, her concern palpable.

"Oh, no, I'm actually fine. Thanks for your concern," I replied, my voice lacking any real conviction. I didn't want to burden her with my problems, especially not after what I'd done.

She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes full of worry. "Get well soon, Ethan," she finally said, her voice soft, as if she knew there was more going on than I was letting on.

"Thanks," I mumbled, watching her walk away. As I closed the door, I leaned against the door, feeling utterly drained. 

I made my way back to bed, but it didn't bring any comfort. The silence was louder than ever, and the headache pounded in my skull, refusing to let me rest.

I curled up on the bed, pulling the covers over me like they could shield me from this feeling.

That night, my phone rang, and seeing Mr. Davis's name flash on the screen sent a wave of dread through me. His voice, usually full of gruff authority, was low, almost broken. He'd lost his wife, and now he was asking if I could come to work tonight. I could hear the fatigue in his voice, the strain of grief. I agreed, of course. What else could I do?

After the call ended, I lay there for a moment, trying to gather the energy to move. As I finally forced myself to sit up, my eyes landed on the note I had pinned to the wall—Derek's name scrawled across it like a target. The sight of it twisted my stomach into knots. I felt like the villain in my own story, and now the only way to rid myself of this guilt was to ask Derek for forgiveness.