Emily, Come Home

Sixteen

"Damn, looks like you're drinking to forget," the bartender commented as I tossed back another shot. I motioned for another as I nodded. "Wanna talk about it?"

"'S just bullshit," I slurred. I downed the refill, and he just set the bottle on the counter.

"I hear a lot of bullshit. It's in the job description. Talk to me." I sighed as he poured another shot.

"Tomorrow woulda been my seventh wedding anniversary. More than six years later, and I still can't fuckin' forget him."

"Ah, relationship went bad?" I scoffed as I took another drink.

"He was fucking crazy. Like, he tried to kill me 'cause he thought I was fuckin' the neighbor guy, but I wass'n. Then, the neighbor tried to help me get the fuck outta there, and he fuckin' stabbed him, man. Then, he stabbed me too!" I pulled down my shirt to show him the scar. "Like who the fuck does that shit, man?"

"Wow, what the fuck? What happened to the ex?" He asked as he wiped down the counter. I shrugged.

"I dunno. Never went to trial or anything, 'cause they said he was too crazy. Last I heard," I hiccupped. "He was in a loony bin. I haven' heard much else. I still talk to his lil' bro sometimes, but we never talk about him."

"Wow," he said again as he poured another shot. "This one's on me, but after this, I think you've probably had enough for one night. You're going to have one hell of a hangover." I tilted the glass towards him before downing it.

"Thanks, man. I really just needed to get fucked up. I haven't really slept in days. I keep having these nightmares where he escaped, and he comes to find me. I know, is crazy, 'cause I literally moved across the fucking country. I changed my name. I'm just so goddamn paranoid," I slurred, almost incoherently.

"Sounds like he really fucked you up. Maybe he's changed, though. He might've gotten help. You never know."

"Maybe," I muttered.

"Look, I get off in fifteen. Let me take you home."

"Nah," I waved him off. "I'll just take a cab or somethin'."

"I insist. I wouldn't feel right if I didn't make sure you got home safely," he pressed.

"Okay, okay. I'll wait."

* * * * *

As I laid in bed, my thoughts ran rampant. It had been more than six years since I'd seen him, yet he visited me every night in my nightmares. I moved to Seattle, which was as far away from him as I could get. I had my name legally changed. Still, I was in a constant state of paranoia.

I had been through therapy, counseling, medication, and even hypnotism, but none of it ever helped. I avoided sleep for as long as I possibly could, relying on caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol to keep me going. I avoided relationships of any kind, romantic or platonic. I started taking pills that prevent me from dreaming, but they quit working. Then, I started taking pills to prevent me from sleeping at all, but I landed myself in the hospital more than once, so I quit taking them.

Some professionals told me it was a classic case of battered woman syndrome. Others would say that it was a severe case of PTSD. Whatever they wanted to call it, it fucking sucked. It was ruining my life. After several years of medications and therapists, I just gave up.

The only real connections I still had were the occasional phone calls with Mikey and Frankie. It was almost always them calling to make sure that I was still alive and hadn't completely gone off the deep end. Usually, I'd try to lie, say I was doing fine. It seemed to comfort Mikey a bit, but Frankie could always tell that I was full of shit.

The last phone call I had gotten was from Frankie back in October. He always made it a point to call me on his birthday, which also happened to be my favorite holiday. He asked the routine questions about work, my self-care, and the like. I lied and said I was doing alright. He called me on my bullshit.

As I lay there, unable to sleep, I thought about the day everything unraveled. I could still see Frankie lying motionless on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of blood. I remember the sharp pain as the blade pierced my chest. I remembered the look on Gerard's face as he snapped back to reality and saw what he had done. I could still hear the sirens and the voices of the officers who came to arrest him. I could still picture the look of terror in his eyes, accompanied by tears. I heard his fragile voice as he said he was sorry, right before they forced him out the door.

It had been over six years, and I could still remember it all like it was yesterday.