Page 141 of Chaos

But, no one should have to hold the burden of putting me back together. Not her, not Sofia. I can see in her eyes that she is starting to see through me. I can’t let her throw her life away for me. Not after what I did.

I did this to myself.

I got Kai involved in the mafia. I’m responsible for his death.

I slept with someone else and broke Sofia’s heart.

I tore my family apart.

I’ve been a plague on everyone’s life since birth. My own mom didn’t want me enough to fight for me. My dad lied to me and abandoned me.

I never even had a chance to meet my sister.

Everyone lies to me.

Everyone leaves.

I want to scream. I want this to stop. I need this to end. I can’t control it anymore. It’s festering inside me, growing and taking me over.

Looking up, I see one of Mikhail’s grand casinos, its neon lights illuminating the night sky. I swing into the entrance of the parking lot, ditch my bike, and let the keys fall into a puddle on the ground, making the water splash softly.

“I need a room. Jax Carter,” I tell the kiosk woman.

It’s all a blur as I stare out into the lobby. Every smile I see sends another shooting pain through my heart.

“Here you go.” The woman slides a keycard towards me with a wary smile.

“Thanks,” I mutter back, swiping it up without making eye contact.

“Is everything okay?” She asks just as I go to leave.

I turn back, running a hand through my hair. “It will be soon.”

I’m so fucking tired of feeling like this. No more battling to claw myself out of the darkness.

Closing the door to the penthouse, I lean against it. With every thought of ending it, I see Maeve and her little mischievous grin. I can almost hear her calling for dada.

The suffocating sensation in my chest is unbearable. It’s like my ribs have been cracked open, my heart squeezed, and every ounce of oxygen stolen. Just like how I robbed them of their happiness. With clenched fists, I push myself back up and make a beeline for the kitchen. I head straight for the cupboard, knowing exactly where the vodka is stored.

I grab my revolver, tossing it onto the kitchen counter. I sit up on the barstool, feeling the cool leather against my skin as I knock back the alcohol, its burning sensation engulfing me from the inside. I just want it to numb the pain.

Numb my brain.

With the new pack of cigarettes in hand, I light one up and rest my head in my hands.

More fucking tears run down my face.

I’m pathetic. What kind of man cries?

A weak one.

As I take another drag, the smoke fills my lungs, making it nearly impossible to catch my breath amidst my sobs. The weight of the gun presses down on my palm, amplifying the heaviness of my thoughts.

The ultimate decision rests in my control.

Squeezing my fingers around the handle, my hand starts to shake.

Even now, my mind is at war.

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