Donovan

7 years, 6 months, and 14 days ago

Everything and everyone around me is so fucking loud I can barely contain the desire to yell for everyone to be quiet. Shut the fuck up, I think. Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.

Shut.

The.

Fuck.

Up.

“I’m so sorry.”

I recognize the person as being familiar, but can’t recall exactly how I know them. The words are no different than the dozens of people who have come before, nor are they different from those who will come after. There’s very little variation to what is said.

I nod and say thank you for what feels like the millionth time, which is the sum total of what I’m able to do right now. Nod, say thank you, and blank everything else out. My eyes go to the mahogany grandfather clock against the wall across the room. The brass hands rest on eleven and five, telling me that it’s just before eleven thirty. I look away, surprised to realize I’ve only been standing here for nearly two and a half hours. It feels like it’s been two and a half decades.

When the stink of roses burns my nostrils, I realize I forgot to continue breathing through my mouth. This stench? The roses? If I never smell anything rose again it’ll be too fucking soon.

“…here if you need us, any time.”

I swallow against the creeping wave of nausea working its way up my throat as I nod and say thank you, again.

“The tragedy is unimaginable. There are no words…”

Then stop fucking talking, I think. I’d kill to be anywhere but here—but I won’t leave. It’s not like there’s anywhere I want to go anyway. There’s no escape, but I don’t know how many more times I can listen to people say I’m praying for you or I’m sorry or my least favorite of all, stay strong.

Stay strong? No. Whatever comes after this, strength is not something I possess. I am nothing but an empty shell with a stubborn heart that continues to beat, even though it should’ve stopped five days ago.

It’s likely that if a bomb went off in the middle of the room, I wouldn’t even blink. The urge to throw something and yell ebbs and flows, but I manage not to give in to the desire to break every piece of antique furniture in the room. Fuck mahogany, fuck cream and gold patterned carpet, and fuck the stupid guest book at the back of the room. Who wants that? There are no mementos needed of this day.

I’m not conscious of moving, yet I must’ve, because now I’m in the back of a limousine.

“Here, drink this.”

I reach out automatically to accept a glass full of dark liquid. Without asking what it is, I bring it to my lips and drain every drop in four giant gulps, only stopping when the ice clatters against my teeth. I think it was a very weak Jack and coke, but I can’t be sure since I didn’t actually taste it. All I know is that it was too light on the alcohol.

“Another.”

“You really shouldn’t—”

“Heavier on the booze this time,” I snap. My voice sounds like I’ve got a throat full of gravel.

After a pause, the glass is handed back to me half full of amber colored liquid. I want to gulp it but force myself not to. Only when this is over and I’ve done everything that’s expected of me will I allow myself to break.