Rave & Roses {A Rema Fanfic}

43 - MICHAEL

I arrived at Divine's house, the darkness surrounding it almost matching the heaviness in my chest. The neighborhood was quiet, the streetlights casting long shadows that only added to the ominous feeling creeping up my spine. Despite the stillness, all of Divine's cars were parked in the driveway, a strange sense of hope flickering inside me. Maybe he was here after all.

I walked up to the front door, my hand shaking slightly as I knocked. I didn't know what I expected—maybe a warm welcome, or even just a normal conversation. But when the door swung open on its own, a knot tightened in my stomach. The house was unlocked.

"Divine?" I called out quietly, stepping inside cautiously. The house was eerily silent, the faint smell of alcohol and something unidentifiable hanging in the air. I looked around, and my heart sank as I saw the state of the place—broken glass, overturned furniture, and scattered papers. Everything was a mess. It was as if a storm had passed through here, leaving destruction in its wake.

I froze for a moment, my mind racing with possibilities. Had he been robbed? Was there a break-in? But as I stood there in the doorway, my gaze landed on the trail of shattered glass leading into the kitchen. My breath caught, and I started walking toward it, every step filled with dread.

As I reached the doorway, I paused. My heart pounded in my chest. Divine was there—sitting at the kitchen counter, his back to me, fumbling with a bottle of vodka. He was struggling to open it, his hands shaking violently.

I watched in silence for a moment, too stunned to speak. His hands—his knuckles were raw and bloodied, covered in cuts and bruises. I didn't need to look further to know that it was him who had destroyed the house. The rage, the pain—it was all written in the state of his hands, and the destruction that surrounded him.

"Divine..." I whispered, stepping forward, my voice catching in my throat.

He didn't react at first, but after a few seconds, he turned his head, and I saw the hollow, empty look in his eyes. His face was gaunt, pale, his eyes red and swollen from tears or lack of sleep. It was a look I had never seen on him before—completely broken.

"What do you want?" His voice was flat, almost devoid of emotion, and the words hung heavily in the air between us.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of everything that had happened between us. I couldn't ignore it anymore. "I came to find you. I... I came to make sure you were okay. Zara's been asking about you."

At the mention of Zara, something flickered in his eyes, but it quickly disappeared. He let out a bitter laugh, a sound that felt like it was meant to be anything but funny. "Zara doesn't remember me, Michael. She doesn't even remember us." His words hit me like a slap. "So why should I care?"

I took a few cautious steps forward, my voice trembling. "Because we're all connected, Divine. You, Zara, me—we've all been through hell together, and I'm not letting this break us. I'm here because I care."

I looked at his hands again, the blood dripping slowly from the cuts as he absently tried to open the bottle. It was clear now—he wasn't just broken emotionally, he was physically hurting himself. I couldn't stand it. "Let me help you," I said, my voice shaking with the weight of everything I was feeling. "You don't have to do this alone."

Divine's laugh turned hollow again, and he shook his head, his grip tightening on the bottle. "What do you know about being alone, Michael? Zara doesn't remember me. You didn't even care enough to fix things between us. You failed her, and now you're here, trying to play the hero."

His words were harsh, each one stabbing deeper than the last. But beneath the anger, I could see the pain in his eyes. The brokenness. And it shattered me.