When Stars Fall [EBOOK and PAPERBACK PUBLISHED]

32. Wyatt - 2007

Ten Years Ago

My head throbs. Cautiously, I open one eye, wondering where I've ended up this time. In the semi-darkness, I make out an alarm clock and a framed photo. Careful not to move anything else, I drag the frame toward me. Isaac and I are at a club, laughing and someone—was it Ellie?—snapped a picture. I've looked at this photo a thousand times in the last few months.

If I return home, I often end up in Isaac's room to sleep off my hangover. With a groan, I ease myself to a sitting position, rubbing my forehead. Where are my clothes? I must have shed them as I came in here. My legs are wobbly when I stand, and I fumble my way out the door.

In the living room, my pants are in the middle of the floor. I check the pockets for my phone. Did I call Ellie last night like I promised? Squinting at the screen, I try three times to punch in my passcode before being locked out. I hurl the phone across the room, satisfaction piecing my gut as it smashes on the tile and skids to a stop, pieces scattering everywhere.

From my other pocket, I take out my pills and shake the bottle. Empty. Can't stay that way, can it? I turn toward my room to refill it, and my foot catches on the Persian rug Ellie and I bought in Turkey. I tip forward, catching myself just before my face connects with the hard ground. My skull barely contains my bouncing brain. My eyeballs throb with each beat of my heart.  I close my eyes to block out the pain, and Isaac is there, collapsed on the ground, thrashing on the dirty sidewalk.

Rage at my incompetence, my inability to save Isaac floods me, drowning everything else. When I rise, I grab a fistful of the carpet, yanking it over and over until the furniture releases it.

A fire. I want a fire.

Striding over to the massive fireplace, I shove the grate out of the way. Does this piece of shit fireplace even work? I'm about to find out. There's lighter fluid in the kitchen, and I grab that before coming back.

I stare at the black pit for a minute. Should I do this? Fuck it. Why not? Why have a fireplace if you never use it? I douse the ornamental logs in fluid and bend down to remove a box of matches out of my pants' pocket. When the match is lit, I toss it into the pit. The logs and fluid catch with a whoosh. So quick and ferocious, I take a step back, laughing. I stare at the carpet. Too big. What else can I toss in there?

Leaving the flames roaring, I enter Isaac's room and gather anything I can carry. I rip the sheets off the bed; I grab the photo from the bedside table, any other photos I can find. Stomping back to the living room, I toss them all into the heat. The sheet trails along the ground, and I grab the last corner, stuffing it into the fireplace. When flames lick at my hand, I shake it, chuckling. Fuckin' hot. 

"Wyatt?"

I turn on my heel, heart racing at the sound of her voice. Ellie's by the kitchen island, a bag at her feet. Was she supposed to be back today? What day is it? What time is it? "You're home." My back is to the flames.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is apprehensive.

I hate when she treats me like a delinquent child. "I'm just cleaning some things up." What does she think I'm doing? We don't need any of this stuff. He's gone.

"You're burning sheets?"

"Yep." My heart beats fierce and irregular. If my heart would slow down, my head might not pound in synch to it anymore.

"Is there someone else here?" she whispers.

"I don't know." I glance around the room, my voice echoing in the emptiness. "Should there be?"

"Why are you burning sheets?" When she gets closer, her expression changes from uncertainty to one of realization. She sighs, her shoulders dropping. "They're Isaac's."