Last Stay

XI. What's Left?

I grab the handle as my legs give out, pull the door open and crawl out of the room. The dark patches clouding my vision begin to dissipate, but my legs are burning like I've been running through a desert. Crippling aftershocks shoot up from my feet and shake my entire body. With shallow breaths, I pull my pant leg up to see what's causing this pain. The blood in my veins freezes at the sight of what was hiding under my jeans.

My leg is powdery-white with deep, black cracks breaking open my skin from the knee down. Suddenly, the marks begin to fade; and with them, the heat and the pain also vanish.

Just like they did before.

The sound of a door opening further down the hallways causes me to spring to my feet. I pull room 805's door shut as silently as possible before hurrying towards the stairwell. Everything inside me feels like ice; shivers rattle my body under a coat that's supposed to keep me warm.

I'm descending one step at a time, but the memory of what just happened is still raw like skin freshly scraped off by a cement sidewalk.

Part of me is slipping into a black pit; I can feel it clawing at the edge with bloody, broken fingernails, desperately trying to stay out of the void. I don't know why, but finding Angela is the key to ending it all; I can feel it.

Her face appears in front of me as clear as day. She's smiling, but I know it's not at me; I don't make her happy...Did I ever? And even now, those brown eyes make my heart warm. But I can't forget the fact that she looked past me to find comfort in another man's arms. I clench my jaw so hard my teeth feel like they're going to shatter under pressure.

When I fucking needed her, she walked away. She lied and made excuses to be with Ivan. Ivan Moore. Ivan Moore. His name rattles around in my head the whole way down the stairs; I can't remember why, but I know I've heard that name before.

Angela's face fades away as I push the door open and walk into the lobby. My jaw is still tight as I reach into my coat, grab my sunglasses and slip them onto my face. I nod at the receptionist as I walk past her desk. She said something to me, but it was drowned out by the sound of the vein pulsing in my ear.

It probably wasn't important.

Winter's air washes over me as I step through the sliding doors. I inhale and hold the breath for a moment, then exhale; a cloud of smoke flows out of my mouth. I repeat the exercise two more times, but it doesn't help. I do not feel calm.

I need a drink.

I slide my hands into my pockets while I walk down the sidewalk and around the block. Along the way, the image of Angela in the arms of a faceless man named Ivan Moore lingers a bleeding wound that refuses to heal. I try turning my attention to the signs and buildings that surround me, hoping to come across something that sells alcohol.

Despite my mental state, I can't help admiring the area. It's reminiscent of the older part of downtown with its brick buildings. There's an old-time charm about the reddish edifices that line the street.

On my left, a clothing store with a neon sign that reads, Vintage, boasts a wide show window featuring headless. Across the street is an only movie theatre with a marquee sign that says: Cineopolis.

Up ahead, a barbershop pole spins over a sign with cursive, black letters that read: Ricky's. Finally, I see a place called Ochi's Pub and Restaurant, across the street and further down the road.

Looks promising.

I walk to the crosswalk and push the button. A yellow light flashes overhead as cars slow down. I quickly walk across the damp street and soon find myself walking into the pub.

In seconds, the warm smell of coconut oil flavoured air fills my lungs. Reggae music plays softly from speakers hanging from the walls. A large Jamaican flag hangs over the bar; most of the walls feature things like steering wheels from ships, fishing nets and old anchors.

I wander away from the bar area, passing a few tables of people laughing and talking over drinks and food. Eventually, I come to a lonely corner and slip to a bench and table clearly designed for couples who want some privacy.

The half-wall to the left mostly blocks the view of the rest of the room. The wall behind the bench makes it impossible for people in the other section to see who's sitting here—unless they happen to walk by.

Just before I can reach for the menu to pretend like I'm able to eat anything, a lovely waitress comes by. She introduces herself as Chantal and smiles as she explains the menu to me with a charming hint of Caribbean in her accent.

Her curly black hair is in a ponytail that hangs just above her shoulders, and she has beautiful dark, brown skin. If I had to guess, I'd say she's in her mid-twenties at most.

"It's after 2," Chantal says, "but I can still get you the lunch special if you'd like; it's Conch Soup today."

"No, thank you," I try my best to smile. "Do you have Guinness on tap?"

Conch Soup sounds good, but I need something bitter to match my mood.

"Sorry," she shakes her head. "We only have Guinness in bottles. But we do have—"

"Bottle is fine," I interrupt.

"Alright," she beams, "I'll be right back with your drink."

"Thank you."

***

I bring the bottle up to my lips again, and the same thought comes rushing back: How would she feel if I cheated on her?

Just then, Chantal comes over to ask if I would like anything else. But I shake my head and offer the kindest smile I can muster. She nods and reminds me to just give her a shout if I want anything else before carrying a tray of dirty dishes towards the kitchen. As I watch Chantal walk away, something stirs in me, bringing with it an inviting idea.

How would Angela feel if I took Chantal out for a nice dinner at La Fleur down on Rosedale Avenue? Then we'd go to the Jazz Den, and I'd get to feel Chantal's body moving against mine as we danced late into the night. Then I'd drive her to our house, shower her with kisses as we stumble towards our bed undressing one another. How would that make you feel, Cariño?

I take another swing of Guinness, and the bitter stout invokes a sobering thought: It wouldn't be right to sleep with Chantal while thinking about Angela. And sleeping with Chantal wouldn't be fair to Angela. I don't think I couldn't bring myself to do that if I knew she still had some love for me. But I want to; I want to hurt her.

Is it possible to love and hate someone at the same time? Maybe...that's...how Angela feels when she thinks about me. Or have I fucked up to the point where the only thing left in her heart for me is hate?

I wish I knew.