Page 7 of Shattered Veil

I felt my eyebrows pinch together. “I mean, yeah, but it’s well before noon.”

She threw her hands up. “I don’t even know what time is right now, Jay. It’s all relative, and no matter what the actual time of day is, I’m getting drunk. I don’t want to talk about shit. All I want to do is blast these memories out of my skull with the help of my friend Jack Daniel’s—and then, I’m sleeping for twenty-four hours.”

Her words resonated through me, for diving into a void sounded damn near blissful. Even more, there was no mention of confiding in each other otherwise. It was an invitation to drink—to silently feel without inquisition—until we no longer could. And the more Cassie’s words sank in, the more it felt like a necessity.

“You got another glass?”

“Only if you can keep up,” she returned without a trace of sarcasm. “You’re already here; don’t make me black out alone.”

I nodded in return, and she watched me as I lumbered my way up the stairs of her porch, moving to stand before her. She exhaled softly, the scent of fresh whiskey on her breath. The smell was hot—so much so that it stung my nostrils, and I considered that the liquor was most likely so recently drunk that it was still burning her tongue and lingering in her throat. I looked into her eyes, and though they were, without a doubt, exhausted, they still challenged me. I didn’t know what for—they just did—and I had the desire to ask if she was alright. To inquire about her mental wellbeing after witnessing all of the horrid things that we both did…but there was no use for any of that. There was no point in asking because I knew we were both in a poor state. So, instead, I put my hands on my hips and spoke:

“You started without me?”

She shrugged. “Didn’t know you were coming. You blame me?”

I shook my head. “Nah.”

And so, she allowed me into her home, the rusty orange tile and dark green accents in the small kitchen familiar to me, for I had been here mere hours ago before we had all done the unspeakable. I sat at her circular dining table, all that rested upon it being a handle of Jack Daniel’s that was mostly full and a single lowball glass. Cassie silently grabbed me my own glass, set it down before me with a clunk, and poured.

She sat across from me, and I looked to her, to my full glass, and then back into her eyes. She tipped her head toward my drink.

“Catch up.”

I drank obediently; she filled her glass and did the same, and we continued until we were both most certainly succumbing to the effects of the alcohol. Occasionally, one of us would repeat the actions from before—grab, pour, drink—and the other would follow suit. What neither of us did, however, was speak. We simply sat with each other, drinking for the sole purpose of numbness, and the silence stretched on for there was nothing to say.

It was perhaps an hour later when we had both had more than enough. I felt my eyelids begin to droop, and the only thing that kept them open was Cassie’s dark gaze turning to mine. The beautiful brown was glossed over, lost in a haze, and she threw me the tiniest of smiles. Her hand reached for mine that had been resting on the tabletop, and she squeezed. Patting it twice before letting it go in a gesture of thanks, Cassie stood from her seat.

It scooted across the tile with a grating noise, her tall body swayed, and her footsteps, which I had recently come to realize were typically graceful, were suddenly not. She stomped heavily—loudly down the only hallway that was in the house. I knew it led to a small bathroom on the right-hand side, and I could only assume that her bedroom was in the same vicinity down that hall.

“G’night, Jay,” she called back to me with a not-so-gentle wave of her hand, and she disappeared into a door on the left.

Though she hadn’t said I could use it, I helped myself to her couch. It was sat in the living area next to the front door, just before the kitchen. In front of a large, black, cast-iron fireplace, the brown couch called to me, and I sprawled across it. The memory of my bumbling steps toward my sleeping arrangements was lost to the liquor, but the thoughts that remained in my mind that night were not.

They were loud. Belligerent. They screamed at me to follow her—to join her in her bed, embrace her from behind, and allow us both to settle into the contentment of another’s arms. To wake in several hours having not moved an inch and, behind the veil of a hangover, feel each other’s bodies and distract ourselves with ecstasy. To drown out the noise in our minds by listening instead to the newfound sounds that either one of us made in the throes of passion.

My mind reeled with the thought, and she was so close that I could taste it—but even heavily under the influence, I knew that the choice would have been a poor one.

I left before she could wake the next morning, tip-toeing over the tile and closing my car’s door so softly that I didn’t even hear it click shut.

The memory was real—colorful and full of life despite the reminder of the event being somber. And I had no idea what spurred it. It had left me breathless, my chest tight with the feeling of longing that I had experienced months ago whilst in mental turmoil.

I attempted to shiver it away, but it remained. It, along with the sight of the man we had disposed of, lingered in my brain, forcing anxiety to drip over me and trail down my spine. My back arched at the sensation as I cringed away from it, and I stood from my bed with a groan.

I paced the apartment. Chugged a glass of water. Took not one but two showers—one hot and one cold—neither helped. No matter what I tried, the sensation hovered over me, and it stayed until it was time for me to ready myself for work. I did so slowly, allowing my routine to busy my mind as much as it possibly could. I cranked the radio as I drove, focusing on the lyrics of the songs and the rambling drivel of the commercials.

It was my work that allowed me to truly distract myself, though, and I had never been more thankful to see businesses in financial ruin via poorly invested stocks. I dove into it, took a short lunch, and worked late.

I most likely would have worked late regardless of my state of mind, though, because it was Friday. The day that I had agreed to go out with Shawn. I was told the establishment we were planning on visiting was only a stone’s throw away from work, so I buckled down until 8:00, input the directions in the map app on my phone, and drove.

I eventually sat in my car, parked in the lot outside, taking in the view of the front. It was busy—so busy that I had struggled to even find a place to park. The building was nothing special, really. It looked like all the others in this area of the city—grey and single-storied. The only thing that made it stand out from the rest was the large, neon-red lighting that displayed the name in all caps right above the door:

GAS LAMP

Shawn stood with Tommy in waiting to the right of the entrance, and I grumbled as I began to make my way to them. I had met Tommy earlier in the day. Though seemingly fine while I had introduced myself, I couldn’t help but notice his appearance—blonde hair that seemed to be styled with so much product, I could almost hear it crunch as he turned his head. A smile so unnaturally white, you would think he were a walking commercial for brightening strips. With the way that he spoke with several bro’s and chill’s interlaced into his sentences, I wondered if he were a part of a fraternity in college. If so, the persona had most certainly stuck to him like glue. He wore wraparound sunglasses with a blueish-tinted mirror finish, and I grimaced at the sight.

“Tats?” Tommy’s obscured gaze trailed over my arms. The night was less chilly than anticipated, and I had rolled the long sleeves that I typically wear for work up to my forearms. “Nice, bro—lose the glasses if you wanna get laid.”

I squinted at him. “Yeah, I don’t anticipate meeting someone here.”

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