He never made the bed. The sight of it neatly made nearly brought him to his knees, that simple gesture of caring. Like they’d expected him to come home and wanted the place to be welcoming. And the apartment looked better than it ever had since he’d been living there. What did that say about him that he hadn’t even cared enough about where he lived to keep it neat?
The thought of Nate and his wife going through and arranging his things caused a fresh wave of discomfort.
Christ. He scrubbed his hand down his face and backed out of the room. He wasn't ready to face all this. He could call his buddy Chad, go get a beer or something. But at the moment, he barely had enough strength to stand, let alone face going out in public.
He made it back into the living room and sank down onto the couch, looked around the apartment he never thought he'd see again. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Nate had wanted him to spend the night with them again but Trent knew that sooner or later he'd have to be alone. And one night at their place was enough. He didn't want to disrupt their life anymore than he already had. The sooner he got his first night alone over with, the better.
Amy had cooked breakfast for all of them this morning but there was no hiding from the fact that things had changed. She fussed over him, not sure what to say or do. And the girls, they ate their pancakes in silence, occasionally sending shy glances his way, almost as if they were afraid of him. He’d left as soon as the table was cleared.
He shook his head. Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled to the bathroom and glared at the mirror. He looked like the walking dead, pale skin stretched over bone, his dark hair long and sticking up all over, a scruffy beard covering his face. No wonder the girls had looked so scared. His newly crooked nose was partly his own fault. Caroline had tried to take care of it, but he hadn't let her, couldn't stand for her to be that close to him.
He hitched his pants up as he turned around. None of his clothes fit. They were all too big, yet the idea of food turned his stomach. Luckily, he still had an almost full case of beer in the fridge. Three beers later, he realized he should have eaten something first. Three more and he didn't care. About anything.
He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes, letting the warm numbness sink into his muscles.
Drunk as he was, the alcohol did nothing to stop his unconscious thoughts from manifesting themselves in nightmares. He woke up in a cold sweat and stumbled into the bathroom. In the low light the white tiles gleamed bone bright. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Unable to meet his own haunted eyes, he turned away.
The bathtub in the corner threatened to swallow him whole. What would it be like if he filled it to the top and sank below the surface? Would death come peacefully if he was the one who chose it?
He forced his gaze away and looked down at his shaking hands. What in the hell was he thinking? He backed out of the room and collapsed onto his knees in the hallway, terrified by the dark thoughts filling his head. Anger rose like a serpent from his belly. It curled around his heart and squeezed. His vision went red as he stood.
Stalking through the apartment, he yanked open his bedroom closet, then returned, fire axe in hand. He swung it over and over again, the clang of metal on porcelain echoing throughout the room. He swung until his hands ached and his skin was cut from flying chips of debris. He swung until the axe fell from his hands and he dropped, exhausted, to his hands and knees on the floor, his ears ringing. He laughed until he sobbed.
Christ. He really had lost it.
The damned pounding in Trent's head, in his chest, wouldn’t stop. The sound was everywhere. Echoing, driving him mad. It took a long time for him to realize the sound wasn’t just in his head, wasn’t the echo of his own heartbeat. Someone was knocking on his door.
Company was
The thought of Nate and his wife going through and arranging his things caused a fresh wave of discomfort.
Christ. He scrubbed his hand down his face and backed out of the room. He wasn't ready to face all this. He could call his buddy Chad, go get a beer or something. But at the moment, he barely had enough strength to stand, let alone face going out in public.
He made it back into the living room and sank down onto the couch, looked around the apartment he never thought he'd see again. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Nate had wanted him to spend the night with them again but Trent knew that sooner or later he'd have to be alone. And one night at their place was enough. He didn't want to disrupt their life anymore than he already had. The sooner he got his first night alone over with, the better.
Amy had cooked breakfast for all of them this morning but there was no hiding from the fact that things had changed. She fussed over him, not sure what to say or do. And the girls, they ate their pancakes in silence, occasionally sending shy glances his way, almost as if they were afraid of him. He’d left as soon as the table was cleared.
He shook his head. Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled to the bathroom and glared at the mirror. He looked like the walking dead, pale skin stretched over bone, his dark hair long and sticking up all over, a scruffy beard covering his face. No wonder the girls had looked so scared. His newly crooked nose was partly his own fault. Caroline had tried to take care of it, but he hadn't let her, couldn't stand for her to be that close to him.
He hitched his pants up as he turned around. None of his clothes fit. They were all too big, yet the idea of food turned his stomach. Luckily, he still had an almost full case of beer in the fridge. Three beers later, he realized he should have eaten something first. Three more and he didn't care. About anything.
He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes, letting the warm numbness sink into his muscles.
Drunk as he was, the alcohol did nothing to stop his unconscious thoughts from manifesting themselves in nightmares. He woke up in a cold sweat and stumbled into the bathroom. In the low light the white tiles gleamed bone bright. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Unable to meet his own haunted eyes, he turned away.
The bathtub in the corner threatened to swallow him whole. What would it be like if he filled it to the top and sank below the surface? Would death come peacefully if he was the one who chose it?
He forced his gaze away and looked down at his shaking hands. What in the hell was he thinking? He backed out of the room and collapsed onto his knees in the hallway, terrified by the dark thoughts filling his head. Anger rose like a serpent from his belly. It curled around his heart and squeezed. His vision went red as he stood.
Stalking through the apartment, he yanked open his bedroom closet, then returned, fire axe in hand. He swung it over and over again, the clang of metal on porcelain echoing throughout the room. He swung until his hands ached and his skin was cut from flying chips of debris. He swung until the axe fell from his hands and he dropped, exhausted, to his hands and knees on the floor, his ears ringing. He laughed until he sobbed.
Christ. He really had lost it.
The damned pounding in Trent's head, in his chest, wouldn’t stop. The sound was everywhere. Echoing, driving him mad. It took a long time for him to realize the sound wasn’t just in his head, wasn’t the echo of his own heartbeat. Someone was knocking on his door.
Company was
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