Barstool Condolences Pt.7

Pt. 1

Pt. 2

Pt. 3

Pt. 4

Pt. 5

Pt. 6

By the time he had stepped out of the apartment and made his was down the stairs, careful not to slip on the hidden patches of ice - the snow had begun to swirl about, launching off the peaks of the drifts that had be pushed into place the previous night.

He could feel them all, each tiny crystal as they bounced off his face - puncturing his skin. Thousands of tiny little cuts, too small for the eye to see and far to cold to bleed. Usually he'd cover himself up, drop his head and continue on, but today he left himself open - welcoming the lashing.

It helped take his mind off the burning sensation from the tears that were slowly freezing against his cheeks.

When he was back inside, it was nothing but rage. A deep rooted fire that burned more intensely than he had thought possible. Of course all he wanted to do was protect her. Run over to her, scoop her up and just leave - cradling her in his arms. No plan. No ideas. Just them - together. That was all he had ever wanted. Just another chance. But of course, the anger was there as well. He didn't even want to give the guy of the other side of the door a chance to breath, realize what was going on. All he wanted to do was pummel him with blows. Crack his bones, shatter his perfect smile - crush the hand that he had raised to her. He just wanted him to experience pain.

But when the door opened, rational sunk in. Quick.

The man who was standing on the other side of the frame wasn't at all who he had imagined. His eyes were sunken, hair disheveled. His shoulders were slumped, arms limp at his sides. He was big. Bigger than he had imagined. But he was broken. It was obvious the previous night of alcohol had taken it's toll, wrecked havoc on his body. Any urge that he had to hurt the man standing before him quickly left. It was clear that he had taken enough of a physical beating - his liver was already swollen, stomach churning, joints sore. He struggled just to stay on his two feet. He was just shell of a man. Far too easy to shatter and not worth the cleanup.

As he stood there, across the room, fists still clenched by his side - he saw her face and how she was looking at the ghost that was still standing in the doorway. He could see into her eyes, how they were no longer shades of hurt and fear but concern.

That's when his heart fell down to the floor - to be kicked under the sofa, lost among the dirt and dust. Forgotten about.

He couldn't deal with any of it. Couldn't stomach the thought of disappearing again, discarded from her life, only to become relevant when it was convenient for her. It had all been so perfect. Everything else just didn't seem worth it. Dull. Boring. He knew where he wanted to be. Who he wanted to experience things with. It had all become so clear in those few hours.

Without another thought, he just made his way to the door, not making eye contact with either of them. He just wanted to get out of the apartment. He needed to escape. The look she had given her fiancee was eating away at him. Drilling into his core. Digging into his soul. Gnawing away. Neither of them had said anything, but he felt like he was being double teamed. Attacked from both sides. He didn't feel tall anymore. Nor strong - not the man who had guided her up the stairs as she was crying, wrapped her in a blanket, and just listened to her pour herself out. Rolls had been reversed. He was now the broken down, beaten man who's shell was on the verge of cracking.

When he opened the door of the complex and made his way out into the morning, he paused for a moment, thinking, hoping, he heard her say something to him from the top of the stairs. He had turned, only to be further disappointed by the empty stairwell.

It had only been the howling wind - calling him out into the swirling abyss.