Page 123 of Raven

I start drinking at six o’clock. Early, I know. But I want this evening and night to end so we can get to tomorrow.

My place feels like a ghost town. One-two-three drinks are not enough. There are voices outside, and I walk out to see two gardeners. They both smile, and I do the stupidest thing ever—yeah, because booze—I ask them for a favor. I was never a flower person, but someone I know is.

And oooh, fuck. Booze, self-pity—and I am a helpless case. I think I’m sick. My mind is. Maddy is my sickness, and the memory of her cold words makes my chest feel like it’s being burned with a hot poker.

I miss her so much that it hurts. The realization of what’s happening takes me by surprise. At first, I thought I was angry because of her rejection, because I didn’t get my way.

But no, that’s not it.

I missed the part where my curiosity turned into infatuation then into dependence and into affection. That’s why I sit every night, smoking and writing nonsense on pieces of paper that crowd my drawers. Mac taught me how to write hard feelings out of my system. And I’ve been doing it for weeks now. Confessions. Pleas. Like one of those Santa letters. Like a paper crane wish.

I think of Maddy when I write. Everything that she means. What-if’s and whys.

Often, I smile as I do it. Most of the time though, my heart clenches so tightly it hurts.

I think I’m going mad.

There are pages and pages and pages of this obsession.

Tonight, I decided to stay by the ocean and drink. That’ll cure it. Maybe the awful hangover will change the Groundhog Day of waking up to the thoughts about her.

I take a bottle and a pack of cigarettes and go to my alcove.

It’s so remote that even thinking about the resort seems like I am not quite there. Except I fuck up and open my phone and the GPS tracker for Maddy’s bracelet. She is at home. And I sit and sulk, thinking about the times when I could simply text her, Tonight…

I want to call Mac. But what would I say? I fucked up?

I watch the sun gleaming through the clouds set behind the horizon, setting a blanket of pink glow over the ocean. By the time the darkness falls, I already have more liquor in me than any other time in the last several years. I smoke away the thoughts about how things can go wrong tomorrow.

My body is burning up. I take my shirt off, then my shoes and socks, sitting on the stone edge of the alcove and digging my toes into the sand. I want to cut myself, too, and I take another swig from the bottle to snuff out that urge.

During my first year on Zion, I used to come here by night to watch shooting stars and make wishes, wondering if any of them would come true. Surprisingly, they did. Money and power are not that hard to acquire when you don’t have anything to lose or jeopardize.

Right now, the night sky is darkened with clouds, no moon visible. There will be no stars tonight. No wishes. Because the only wish I have is almost impossible. Maddy was that ephemeral happiness that I might never get back.

The hurt clogs my chest. Anger—at myself and who I am. The fact that I try to hide it with an important job and connections, rubbing shoulders with the most notorious and powerful in the world, having millions in my account. I try to fool myself that it glazes over my shitty past. The truth? People like Maddy recognize it.

The only thing that helps with strong emotions is physical pain. So, here we go again.

By reflex, my hand slides into my pocket and pulls out a stiletto. I gave Sonny my Swiss Army knife, the one I’ve had for years. But this buddy is much better, sharp like a scalpel, purely a stabbing weapon.

My skin hums at the thought of drawing blood to the rhythm of the crashing waves. This habit never lets me forget, and I shouldn’t. My foster father, number three, the worst example of a human being, literally sewed that into me. He was a vet. Never took me to the ER after the beatings. But he was good with a needle. So good. Especially after a bottle of vodka. It only took several months before I got used to it and stopped passing out.

My thumb on the button makes the blade click out and stab the air. I smile to myself and look down at the dangerous glint of the steel in my hand.

Booze, hurt feelings, anger, dark memories, self-harm. It’s a vicious circle, not necessarily in this order.

The bottle clicks against the stone as I set it down.

My ribs are already decorated with plenty of thread-like scars like some tribal pattern, including the jigsaw pattern of his doing. When I bring the sharp tip of the blade to my skin, it feels good. Pain feels good. This is therapy.

Red blood, gray ocean, black heart. Maybe I should carve my heart out and leave it for Maddy with a note. Yours.

I sink down onto the cold stone, toss the stiletto aside, take another swig of booze, and hope that I never wake up.

I don’t how much time has passed when I open my eyes. The air is gray, and I realize that it’s dawn. I groan, my head splitting as I move, my bones aching from sleeping on the hard stone.

There’s something against me, small and warm, like a dog. I frown, turning to see what it is.

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