No Tomorrow

Maybe he got robbed. Maybe someone came here and took everything. Or maybe the cops came, arrested him, and cleaned the place out.

Yes. That’s exactly what happened. One of the neighbors must have caught on and reported us and now he’s probably sitting in a jail cell waiting for me to come bail him ou—

As I spin to leave, I notice the white piece of notepaper stuck to the back of the door with an old nail. With a trembling hand I tear it off the door.

Ladybug,

It was time for me to keep walking.

Take care of Acorn for me.

If you can, try to leave a space for me in your heart.

I’m sorry.

I love you like no tomorrow, little slayer. Don’t ever forget that.

~ Blue

Tremors rock through my body so hard my teeth are gnashing against each other. Fury and heartache rages inside me like a tsunami, and I want to scream and tear the shed apart, to somehow destroy this scene around me and bring it all back to how it was yesterday. But I’m unable to move or cry or blink or even breathe because the man who meant everything in the world to me has just shattered every little piece of my heart and soul.

Why? How could he do this to me?

He just walked away. From me, and his dog, and our little life, and our love. I stare at his uniquely perfect writing, wishing it to morph into words I want to read like the notes he’s left in the past. Words like I miss you and come back. Big wet, hot tears fall from my eyes like the beginnings of a rainstorm. At the thought of the rain, my fragile heart cracks and disintegrates, and I wail and shriek like a wild animal caught in a trap, mentally unhinged from the pain with no way to escape and on the verge of chewing out my own heart to get away from it all.

Falling to the dirty floor, I sob uncontrollably, digging my nails into my palms until the soft flesh breaks open and bleeds.

It hurts. Everything hurts more than I ever thought possible. The stabbing pain is so deep, burning in my heart and in my soul, searing into every part of my physical and emotional being. I’m sure it will kill me. Nobody can live through a pain like this.

Acorn whimpers and lies next to me with his head on my leg, always the caretaker, and I bow down and hug him to me like he’s a lifeline. I cry into his fur until it’s soaked and curly, until I have no more tears left.

Hours must pass, and it’s brutally clear Blue isn’t going to come back, no matter how long I sit here and picture him walking through that door, it’s not happening. I don’t have special manifestation powers at all. What I have is a terribly broken heart and lost faith in love and trust. When I can’t sit there for a moment longer, I fold the note up and put it into my back pocket, and Acorn and I close the door of the shed behind us for the last time.

In a daze I walk past the house, and I almost don’t even notice that the door of the four-season porch is ajar. I honestly can’t remember if it’s always been that way, but curiosity draws me like a magnet to pull the door open and cautiously step inside and take a look around. The air inside is stale and musty, penetrating through my stuffy nose. Whoever lived here at one time obviously loved birds, because several old bird cages hang from the ceiling, and quite a few rest on the floor. At the other end of the porch are two huge cages, the kind a big parrot would live in. Even though they all appear to have been cleaned, there are still random feathers of different sizes and colors scattered on the floor. Stepping farther inside, my eyes are drawn to three piles of sketchbooks, each pile approximately three feet high. I grab one of the books and flip through it, but its pages are empty. My brow creases as I pull one from the bottom of the pile, letting the rest tumble to the floor. This one is also empty. I check another from a different pile—and it’s also void of any writing.

A shiver sprinkles up my spine as I realize these are the same notebooks Blue was always scribbling in when he was having a bad day. There must be two hundred of them here.

Why?

Putting the notebooks back on the disheveled stack, I slowly walk over to the corner, where a sheet is thrown over a pile of...something. My heart races as I lift the sheet, and I’m not at all prepared to uncover all the objects that were in the shed. Everything—the air mattress, the candles, the curtain, the throw rug, Acorn’s bed. Next to this pile are two large garbage bins filled with empty bottles of assorted alcohol, matchbooks, and empty cigarette boxes.

Confusion mixed with nausea waves over me. Did he break in here to hide all this stuff? Or was he able to get in here all along? There’s no way he had all those notebooks in the tiny shed, so they must have been hidden in here. But why? And for God’s sake, why so many?

With careful, quiet steps, I walk over to the door that leads to the main house and attempt to turn the brass knob, but it doesn’t turn. Peering through the dirty pane window of the door, there are no signs of life in the large kitchen; nothing left on the table or counter tops.

I bang on the door. “Blue? Are you in there?” My voice cracks with hope and despair. “Evan? It’s me. If you’re here, please come out and talk to me.” I press my ear to the glass. “Please?”

There’s no sound, no creepy feeling of being watched or listened to. I’m alone standing on a dirty porch, becoming more heartbroken and confused with each passing second. With the last tiny glimmer of hope snuffed out, I reluctantly give up and leave, grabbing Acorn’s bed from the pile on my way out. I don’t want any of that other stuff, but this poor dog deserves to have his own bed.

“Come on, Acorn.” I head toward the car but the dog keeps stopping and looking back at the house, hesitating. “Come on, sweetie. I’m going to take you home.”

It takes me twenty minutes to persuade Acorn to leave the property, even though he’s left with me several times in the past weeks with no problem. Somehow, he knows Blue has abandoned him, and, like me, he seems to be in shocked disbelief, waiting for him to come swaggering down the walkway.

As I drive home, completely numb and emotionally catatonic, I replay last night and this morning in my mind, trying to pinpoint what went wrong, or at what exact moment a goodbye was said that I didn’t catch. Looking back, there were none, and there were many, depending on how I interpret each moment.

I can’t help but wonder if nothing was wrong at all, and he chose to leave when everything was perfect, to suspend us forever like snapshots in a photo album.

When I get home, I realize I don’t have anything I need to care for a dog properly, and I’m not going to continue feeding him part of my meals as Blue did for who knows how long. A dog needs real food, a leash, a brush, and dishes. I drive to the nearest pet store to get everything I need and leave Acorn at my apartment. As I’m browsing through the aisles, I remember the ceramic dishes I bought for Acorn just a few weeks ago, which must be in the pile of stuff on the porch. I can buy new dishes, but those were expensive, and they were special because they have the words ‘my dog rocks’ printed on the side.

Next thing I know, I’m driving over to the abandoned house to retrieve the dishes even though I swore to myself I’d never set foot on that property again. The sun is setting in the distance when I arrive, and I try to fight off the tears and ache in my gut knowing Blue won’t be coming around the corner of the house to greet me. Just as I assumed, the dog dishes are under the tarp with the other items. Shaking my head with a myriad of sadness and frustration, I pull them out and turn to leave, but stop in my tracks when something very odd catches my eye. All the notebooks are neatly stacked again, and I know damn well they weren’t like that when I left earlier.

Am I losing my mind? Or has someone been here?

My heart pumps hard in my chest. For all the time I spent on this property hiding in that shed, I never once saw another person here except for Blue. So either someone’s been in this house the entire time—which seems very unlikely—or Blue has been coming and going in here today, and could possibly still be here.

I race to the door to the kitchen and rattle the locked doorknob, then bang loudly on the door.

“Blue! Are you in there? I swear to God you better come out here and talk to me if you are!” I peer into the window, but I don’t see anyone. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I scream. “I thought you loved me!”

The creaking of the empty birdcages swinging is the only sound.

Mumbling under my breath and with tears falling down my face, I walk to my car and drive away. But I don’t go home, like I should—like a normal person would. Because right now I’m emotionally crushed with a broken heart and I can’t think rationally at all. I drive my car to the next street over, park it in front of someone’s house, and then walk back to the abandoned house in the dark. As quietly as I can, I creep back onto the porch, and hide myself under the tarp, against the side of the house. I pull the down comforter over me to keep myself warm, and the hysterical sobs start all over again because it smells of smoke and sex and us. Memories assault me like a swarm of stinging bees, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to escape them or not see them, to not feel their pain penetrating deep into my very soul. Closing my eyes does nothing to shield me from visions that are forever burned in my mind.

His smile. Him playing guitar. The way his eyes would sparkle or darken with emotion. Him hugging Acorn. His body on top of mine. The feather against his hair.