Page 162 of We Are Yours
Life took a one-eighty the day Melody died. The world flipped on its axis, dragging me with it. The floor finally fell out from beneath me, and I had no choice but to crash with it. My days turned into one huge blur of trying to find some direction.
I never intended to leave her the way I did, especially after we slept together. I knew it was wrong. Though it would have been worse if I had stayed. I wasn’t in the right state of mind.
For the first time in my life, I understood Melody, and that was the hardest pill to swallow. It was actually still stuck in my throat, and it didn’t matter how much water I drank. It was lodged in there.
My eyes shifted to the clock on the nightstand, and it read 4 a.m. I was in a hotel in Miami, drowning myself in work for Marco.
Grabbing my cell phone, I resisted the urge to call her.
Text her.
Try to reach out.
Explain…
What do I say? Where do I start? How do I make her understand?
I just needed a break. At least, that was what I repeated to myself every day. I wasn’t gone forever, and that thought alone made me spiral, contemplating how many times Melody had the same one.
Is it my fault she’s dead?
The guilt I carried felt like rocks being poured down my lungs, and now I had to live with that too.
For the rest of the week, I was on autopilot.
Confused.
Embarrassed.
Worried.
There wasn’t an emotion I wasn’t plagued by. Every day, I woke up at four in the morning, feeling her in every sense of the word. Completely unaware of which side was up or down, left or right. I was disoriented among my own thoughts, seeking comfort in my empty embrace. I allowed darkness to creep over me, smothering any light left inside me.
“Hey!” Marco greeted, pulling my focus over to him.
We were in his office at his club.
“You alright in there?”
I nodded.
“You don’t look alright. You look like shit.”
I shrugged. “I’m still making you money.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“What?” I scoffed. “We’re friends now?”
He leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head. “I’d like to think so.”
“I don’t need a therapist.”
“No, but you do need a friend.”
“Don’t tell me what I need, Marco.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
