Page 57 of Psychotic Faith
"Faith, please." When have I ever begged? Never. But my knees want to buckle, vision graying at the edges from exhaustion and something worse: loss.
"If you have any genuine feeling for me, you'll leave."
The trap of it. Stay and prove I don't care about her wishes. Leave and lose her. Either way, I lose.
"This isn't over," I manage.
"Yes, it is."
I make it to my car before the shaking takes over completely. My body convulses like a junkie's. Worse than a junkie's. They can score another hit. There's only one Faith. The steering wheel is slick with sweat, or is it blood? Can't tell anymore. This must be what withdrawal feels like, except I can't find another dealer, another high.
I call Nico, my voice barely recognizable: "She left me."
Silence. Then: "Come home. It's not safe for you to be alone like this."
Like this.Compromised. Weak. Useless. The drive home happens on autopilot, missing turns, forgetting where I am until the GPS recalculates. Twice I pull over, convinced I'm going to vomit, but nothing comes up. My cock feels dead. Even the thought of violence feels empty without her to return to.
Walking into the mansion, everyone already knows. Nico must have called ahead.
Sofia takes one look at me: "Jesus, Luca. You look like death."
She's not wrong. My reflection in the hallway mirror shows someone I don't recognize: hollow eyes, skin pale as paper, dried blood still under my fingernails.
Marco appears, studying me with that clinical assessment he uses before ordering executions. "When did you last sleep?"
"Saturday. With her."
"It's Monday night, Luca. Almost Tuesday."
Is it? I've lost time somewhere between the warehouse and here. Between having her and losing her.
Maria brings water, making me drink, hovering like I might collapse. Maybe I will. This feeling, chest cracked open, insides spilling out, maybe this is what dying feels like when you're already dead inside.
"You need medical intervention," Marco says.
"I need Faith."
"She's not coming back, brother."
The words pierce through what's left of my control.
"Then nothing matters." I mean it. The community center, the family business, breathing, none of it matters without her to make it real.
Marco's phone buzzes with business. Detroit. Shipments. Territory. He shows me the screen, trying to pull me back to the world. I turn away. Nothing about the family business penetrates the fog of her absence.
Seventy-two hours without sleep now. The hallucinations started around hour sixty: shadows moving in peripheral vision, her voice calling my name from empty rooms. My hands shake constantly, making simple tasks impossible. I tried to clean my Glock and nearly shot myself when my finger slipped.
I lose control and call her. She answers on the third ring, and her "hello" nearly breaks me completely.
"You said you'd leave me alone." Her voice is tired. So tired.
"I can't." Simple truth.
"Luca…"
"I don't know how to exist without you anymore. You changed my brain chemistry. Literally. I sleep with you or I don't sleep. Feel with you or feel nothing. You've become necessary for my basic function."
Long silence. I can hear her breathing, each exhale a small torture.
