Vice [h.s]

VII

*** Play the linked song now as you read*** 

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I wonder how long this paint chip has been here. How did Derek and I never notice this? I am sure if we had, we would have painted over it immediately. He always hated things being out of order. The paint chip is pretty big and visible as well, located in the wall next to the sofa. That's hideous.

I've been laying, my back pressed firmly against the floor in my living room, for I don't know how long, staring at the walls, the ceiling, the paint chip. The sun is starting to set. Next to me lies a bottle of Bacardi 151 proof, the strongest in my cabinet, empty. I feel nothing actually, mostly numb.

But the numbness itself feels painful. The fact that I feel numb pains me, angers me. Today, mentally, was a bad day. I haven't had one of these in a while. I even called in to work. Fucking grief group.

The pullover I'm wearing is almost twice my size and smells like Derek, a mixture of mint leaves, lemongrass, vanilla, and cedar wood. The scent is familiar, but never once has failed to entice me. Now, it's just nostalgic.

Every word that he spoke to me in the hours leading to his death is engraved in my memory. The yelling, the bitter words spoken that we can't take back, his repeated apologies as I left for work that morning. I told him that we needed to cool off and go about our day and discuss it at dinner when I got home.

I remember texting him a few hours before getting off work, asking him what he wanted me to pick up for dinner. He didn't answer me, which I took as further aggression from him. This made me even more mad. Our arguments always spiraled into something much bigger about problems we were facing in our relationship. Somehow we always managed to diffuse our tempers, but this time they were uncontrollable.

I picked up Thai food on the way home, taking the longer route to sort out my frustrations and figure out what I was going to say to him at dinner. I still felt like I was in the right and I was going to find a way to convince him. Who the fuck stays out all night for 'work' and barely gets home as I am waking up to start my day? He worked for a production company and apparently was caught up on script editing for a film. His hours were always off - sometimes he would go into work at 1PM and get home at 9PM or 10PM, other times he worked mornings - that is understandable. However, staying and working until six in the morning? I didn't buy it at all. And if that really was the case, he and I were going to need to have a serious conversation about our future because we were barely seeing each other with our alternating work schedules.

I digress.

I pulled into the parking lot, walked the stairs up to our floor to give me more time to think of a counter argument, and approached our door. It was open. The first thing I did was yell at him for leaving the door open before I was even fully inside our apartment. The sweater on his body was red, but it was white when I left for work that morning. The next four or five days were a blur.

Sometimes I wonder. What if he would've been asleep and in bed before I woke up, so that I didn't even notice his late arrival? What if I wouldn't have left early for work, desperate to escape the heated argument? What if I would've picked up dinner from the Chinese restaurant down the street instead of going across town? What if I wouldn't have picked up dinner at all? What if I wouldn't have taken the longer route home? Not taken the stairs? What if I would've just called in to work that day? The butterfly effect. It can drive you crazy.

Sometimes the most traumatic moments, the moments that will plague our everyday thoughts, are the ones leading up to the fall.

Fucking Jahn.