Page 101 of Inevitable Destruction

EVERETT

“15 Missed Calls”—Mouth Culture

I forcedmyself to stay at work past any reasonable amount of time, huddled at my desk, working through mountains of paperwork as Jamie went on patrol with Johnson, some new prick she’s training.

The rain from this morning has transformed into a hell of a storm by the time I’m walking out of the precinct doors. With a cigarette already between my lips, I stand under the awning, watching the smoke dissipate into the murky night.

Maybe I’m prolonging the inevitable, but the decision has already been made.

I’ve had all day to think. Too much time, actually.

I broke my only best friend, used her own pain against her to fit my agenda which stands as one of the worst things I’ve ever done. I’ve turned into this unrecognizable monster all for my Pops.

He never would’ve wanted this, for it to go this far, cause this much pain.

But it’s too late.

I jump in Dominik’s car and make my way home. Trees lining the road zip by as I round curve after curve of the backroads, needing a different view than my usual. My heart hurts inside of my chest. Guilt is such a fickle thing—the one thing that eats away at your sanity and makes you question every decision you’ve ever made.

Could it possibly be the right one if it makes you feel as bad as it does?

Lightning strikes, followed by a clap of thunder, sending a tense, static vibration through the air as I pull into the drive. Every light in the house is off, but that’s not unusual. It’s after midnight, which means Dominik is probably sleeping, or high and dozing off.

A smile twisted with a painful grimace mars my face as I step into the rain and trudge up the walk. Knowing I’ll see his sleeping form in a few short minutes is enough to kick my ass into gear, and I hurry to peel my soaked leather jacket off my arms. Opening the closet door, I grab a hanger and maneuver the ends through the sleeves, setting it back on the rod.

Just as I press the door closed with a soft snick, something clicks inside of me. I pull the door back open and raise my gaze to the top shelf, to the empty top shelf.

“Motherfucker,” I grumble and tug my fingers through my strands, pulling on the ends to give me a bite of pain as I wrack my brain.

I know I saw the box there this morning, where it’s been since I placed it there three years ago. And now it’s gone. Which could only mean…

I spin on my heels, making a beeline for the bedroom when something crinkles under my boot. I stop dead in my tracks, a shiver of angst creeping up my spine, like a snake poised to strike.

My gaze darts down to the paper my boot is crushing, now stained with a wet, muddy print. My foot lifts, and the paper flutters back down to the floor. The Le Grande police department’s logo stares me in the face, inky black and bold against the once stark, white paper.

I pick it up and bring it closer to my face, though I’m not sure why. Not when I know every fucking word on the page without looking past the emblem. Dragging my eyes off the paper, I find the room cluttered in white sheets, some grey and thin, as they surround the opened lockbox gracing the coffee table.

“Dominik!” I shout. The paper falls from my fingers as I rush to the bedroom, ready to beat his fucking ass bloody for going through my shit. I step over the threshold to another room left in complete disarray.

Cigarette butts scattered across the carpet; ash rubbed into the fibers. Water spilt, clothes strewn about, the bed sheets jumbled into a ball at the foot of the bed.

An empty fucking bed.

It doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out that he left. Anger fills me at the thought.

How dare he think he can fucking leave me without my permission. I tell him what the fuck to do. I control him. Because he’s mine.

With a guttural growl, my fist plows into the drywall, crushing it underneath my knuckles and sending a plume of white dust into the air. I retract my arm and throw it forward again, and again, until I’m panting from the exertion, not feeling an ounce better, other than the fact my hand is on fire.

I strip from my wet clothes and leave them on the floor at my feet before grabbing jeans and a shirt from my closet without looking, pulling them on, and then I’m out of the room.

Sidestepping the mess littering my floor, I step out into the night and jump in Dominik’s car. My phone, which I left in the cup holder in my haste, connects through the aux, and some Seether song blasts through the speakers.

I punch on the gas and squeal out of the drive, heading for the only plausible place Dominik could be. As my vexation increases in time with the speedometer on the old car, I punch the pause button on the music and yank the cord out of my phone, pressing the call button on Dominik’s name.

It rings endlessly, the repetitive tone grating on my frazzled nerves with every second it loops. The moment his voicemail cuts in, I growl into the receiver, “You better pick up the fucking phone, beauty boy.” I hammer the end button, only to redial just as quickly.

The endless cycle continues as I rip down the road, taking the straightest shot to Dominik’s apartment, the only place I can think of where he’d be. It could’ve been hours. Hours since he left, and I didn’t know. Because I was fucking feeling sorry for myself.

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