Rock Bottom

Every tragedy, every hardship, seemed to suck him just a little bit deeper into the grip of his own personal hell.



It felt like every slip up, every relapse, was pulling us down, until the weight of all of our failures was dragging us under.



At first, we were drowning together, but my will to survive was too strong to let that continue forever.



My hold on him became weaker and weaker, and eventually, every finger broken, my hands opened, and I let him go.



No one could say I didn’t fight for him. No one could say I didn’t lose.



I strode into his apartment, annoyed and frustrated, and disappointed. They were all feelings I’d become accustomed to where Tristan was concerned.



He’d stood me up again. We were supposed to meet for dinner two hours ago.



He was by himself, sprawled out on his sofa.



I saw that he was playing with a little black wristband, the kind Jared used to wear, and that we’d given out at his funeral. I wasn’t surprised.



I was, however, angry. My fear, my desperation, my need to help him, all seemed to be channeling itself into a bitter anger these days. That anger kept me up at night.



I was trying to be there for him, but who was there for me?



His eyes were glazed, and pointing up at the ceiling.



“I get why you’re doing this. Don’t think I don’t. The pain is so harsh that you’ll take anything to numb it. It’s so bad that you’d be willing to lose everything else in your life, if that pain would just go with it.”



He was silent, turning that little band in his hands, over and over.



That silence told me everything.



“Do you not understand how far gone you are? Or do you just not care anymore?”



Silence.



“It should tell you something that I’ve already had to think about what your black wrist band will be, when you follow him.”



He stopped twirling it for a brief moment, then resumed the movement, still silent.



“I’ve decided it will be a deck of cards. Does that seem appropriate to you? You have veto powers, of course, since it’s your funeral I’m talking about.” My voice broke on the word funeral.



He sighed, finally moving his eyes from the ceiling to my face, looking awfully annoyed for someone who was high as a kite.



“You think he would want this? For you to follow him? Jared doesn’t need you to do that, Tristan. Leticia doesn’t need you where she went. Our baby,” I gasped. I had to stop and compose myself before continuing. I still couldn’t talk about our lost little angel without breaking down. “Our baby doesn’t need you to follow him. Certainly there’s nothing you can do for him now. But I need things from you. I’m right here, and I’m asking you to stop chasing these ghosts, and start living again, with me.”



“You don’t need me. You don’t need anybody, Danika. You’re stronger than all of us, and you’re better off without me.”



“Don’t start on that. I’m just going to tell you one thing, and then I’ll leave you to it. This is it, Tristan. This is the last warning. I find you like this again, I’m done. You wanted an ultimatum. You got one.”



I went home, my shoulders slumped from the weight on them.



I lay down on my bed and did not get back up.



Not for hours.



Not for days.



What was left of a woman when she gave a man everything?



The answer was easy.



Impossible to deny, even for me.



Nothing.



Nothing was left of her.



Had I given too much? Was there enough of me left to even try to move on from this?



Is this what had happened to my mother? I wondered, feeling some bit of sympathy for her for the first time in years. Had some man broken her spirit, so much so, she had become a shell of a woman without him? Would I let myself turn into some apathetic ghost of a woman?



No, I thought furiously. I was stronger than her. I would struggle untill the end. Even if I could see now what it would take for me to become like her, it didn’t mean I had to. There was one undeniable quality that I had known about myself since I was a very tiny, unloved child.



I was a survivor.



And so, I had to try to move on from this.



TRISTAN



She was at my apartment, slamming around in my kitchen. She was pissed at me again.



She’d brought me a cup of coffee, and I sipped on it while I listened to her venting her frustration at my kitchen. I winced as I heard something break.



The thought suddenly occurred to me that our separations weren’t doing this to her.



She seemed harried, yes, stressed out and busy, of course, but the pain in her eyes, the rage, came not from my absence, but from my presence.



That killed me.



A light suddenly went on.



It wasn’t a spotlight, but a floodlight, illuminating everything I didn’t want to see, every dark, sinister corner of my pitiful existence. The facts were the light, and I’d been ignoring the facts for way too long.



My life was cursed. People I loved, people close to me, who depended on me, had died, and I was responsible. As far as I was concerned, every single one of those deaths had been preventable, and I had failed to prevent them.



I had no future. This had been clear to me for a while now.



But what suddenly became clear, what made my skin crawl with its pristine simplicity, was that Danika did not have to share this future with me. She didn’t have to be dragged down into the abyss with me. I’d been selfishly keeping her on this sinking ship, and she deserved so much better.



What had I ever been thinking, dragging her into my mess of a life? How had I ever thought that I could be good enough for her?



She came back into my room carrying a plate of food. She set it on the nightstand, then came to stand in front of me, hands on her hips.



I set my cup on the floor, my hands going to her hips. She was wearing tight, low-slung jeans, and I buried my face against the bared skin between the top of her pants and the bottom of her shirt.



Could I really do this? I wondered.



One thing was for certain, I couldn’t do it without touching her at least one last time.



Her hands went to my hair, gripping. I could tell that, with just the small touch I’d given her, she was softening in her anger. She never stayed mad at me for long, no matter how much I deserved it.



I kissed her belly, that perfect belly. “Danika,” I breathed against her skin. My arms snaked around her body, clutching her. “We can’t do this anymore.”



She stiffened, then relaxed, stroking my hair. “Drink some more coffee, Tristan. Get sobered up before you start spouting nonsense at me again.”



I kissed her belly again, closing my eyes, digging deep for strength that I didn’t think I possessed.



“This isn’t working, Danika. You know it as well as I do.”



“Stop it!” she said sharply, tugging my head back, making me look at her.



I flinched away.



She was ruthless, following me, kissing me, lying down beside me.



I groaned and covered her body with mine, needing to feel her against me more than I needed to breathe, even if this was the last time.



“I’m sorry,” I breathed against her face. “I’m done.”



I couldn’t take her eyes for even a second, couldn’t take the wounded, condemning stare, the pursed, angry mouth. “Stop it,” she said, but this time her voice was weaker, less certain.



Still, she wasn’t done torturing us both, and lifted her head to press her lips to mine. I took her mouth with a rough moan.



She was going to be taking another important piece of me with her when I made her leave. There was no helping it. No changing it.



“We’re over, sweetheart,” I told her, when we pulled away to catch our breaths.



“No,” she protested, her voice a faint thread.



She kissed me again, and I kissed her back. She peeled her shirt off, and I helped her, my hands roaming freely over her bared skin. She reached down to free my thick length into her hand, and I pushed hard against her palm.



I was only human, and a flawed one at that.



She stripped us both bare, and pulled me on top of her. I didn’t enter her, just lay on top of her, our bodies molded perfectly together, our heartbeats pumping restlessly against each other, my erection throbbing along her entrance.



It was the most exquisite torture.



When all else failed, I thought, become the kind of asshole that I knew she would hate. I squeezed my eyes shut as though bracing for a blow, face buried in her neck. “I think I’d be better off on my own. Being tied down just isn’t doing it for me.”



She was sobbing, and I held her. She kissed me, still sobbing, and I kissed her back, eyes still closed tight. “Why, Tristan, why? Why are you doing this?”



“We need to do what’s best for us, and at this point in our lives, we aren’t best for each other.” I used the we, because if I made it only about her, she’d never accept it. The we was a lie, but it was also my only hope. “This marriage was a mistake.”



She writhed against me, shifting her hips to push me inside of her. Her sobs came in sweet, soft pants against my cheek. With a rough gasp, I shoved in to the hilt.



I was dying, and in my death throes, I let myself have her one last time.



Every stroke was sweet agony. Every cry I drew from her held as much pain as it did pleasure.



I rutted out my pleasure inside of her sweet, perfect body, and a torrent of self-loathing tainted every rough stroke.



My skin should have been crawling in shame when I was done. I should have never been able to rest again, for the guilt.



But should haves meant nothing. I came, buried deep inside of her, and still buried deep, I fell asleep.



When I woke again, fourteen hours later, she was gone.



DANIKA



He lay on top of me, buried deep, and fell asleep.



He slept all night like that, and I did not move him, did not want to. I gasped breath in and out and closed my eyes and thought that I would never forget this feeling, of him on me and in me, of him consuming my soul and letting me go.



He was too callous, too far gone to realize that I’d never be free of him, and all he’d really done was set me adrift.



I never left that bed.



That feeling of helpless abandonment and unendurable longing stayed inside of me, for hours, for months, for minutes, for weeks.



For years.



I went through my life, through tragedy and pain, through hardship and life, and my heart, my very soul, stayed in that bed.



I felt broken after that last encounter.



Was broken.



Pieces of me had been shattered on that bed, important, essential pieces, and they would not, could not, ever find their way back together.



But I kept going. Life is cruel like that.



The facts revealed themselves all too clearly, when I could look at it through the numb filter of fresh, untested grief. That brief moment between the denial and the agony.



I had two distinct paths to choose from in front of me.



One was painfully bright, and paved with brutal certainties. I could move on. It would hurt, it would kill some parts of me, but I could still have a future. It was not the path I desired, but life was not about getting what you wanted, it was about living with what you needed.



Tristan started me calling me exactly one week later, apologizing, trying to take it back, but I didn’t take his calls. Couldn’t.