Page 113 of Love Marks

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It’s been three days.

Three days since I’ve left my apartment. Three days since my world ended. Three days since I lost her.

Beverly called me about a hundred times before I finally answered.

“Mr. Marks. Are you okay?”

I didn’t even have the energy to lie.

“No,” I said, my voice devoid of any emotion. Then I hung up.

It’s the only word I’ve spoken since I saw Quinn.

Just thinking her name is physical pain, so I don’t think of it. Don’t think anything. Instead, I keep all the curtains closed, the whole apartment covered in a cloud of darkness, and I hardly leave this spot on my bed, except to get food from the delivery guys or get a new bottle of liquor to knock back.

I’m almost through my second bottle of scotch, the brown, scorching liquid making my head pound uncontrollably at this point. But I can’t stop. Stopping means thinking. Thinking means…thinking about her.

I throw another shot back, my stomach rolling. I haven’t had much of an appetite, but I managed to swallow down a piece of pizza or two yesterday. I think that’s the last time I ate, but I can’t remember. I should probably shower, but I can’t bring myself to make it the short distance to the bathroom right now.

It would be better if I could cry. I almost wish I would. Wish there was something, anything, to release this endless pit of despair inside me.

I grip the scotch bottle, the brown liquid sloshing over the side and spilling onto my sheets.

“Fuck,” I mumble and put the bottle on the bedside table. I force myself out of bed when I see one of my dresser drawers open, color peeking out of it.

I stumble over to it and between my blurry vision, I can make out two wrapped gifts, with a note on the top with my name. I open the note and read it twice before the words sink in:

To Wesley.

Thank you for making my life better every day. Happy Birthday.

Yours, Quinn

The words are like knives. I feel bile rising in my throat, like I might throw up right here. I swallow and blink back the wave of emotions threatening to spill over.

Not yours anymore.

I shouldn’t open them. I should just leave them or give them back to her at some point. I don’t know, but it feels like they aren’t for me anymore. Not really.

Still, my hands grab at the wrapping paper, tearing the first gift open. It’s a framed photo of us. I rack my mind, trying to remember when she took it, when I realize. It’s from one of our Friday night dates, after we’d gone to see a Broadway show. She’d snapped a selfie outside the theater. Both of us are smiling widely, hints of laughter on both our expressions. We look so happy.

I put the photo down, my throat tighter than before. Tears are strolling down my face and I can’t stop them. I thought it would feel good to cry but it feels terrible. I can’t stop it.

My hands unwrap the second gift, knowing I’m making a mistake, but I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s two books. The first is what looks like a self-help book, titled Finding Your Way: A Guide to Healing Through Music. The second is a songwriting music book. Next to both of them, a small, handwritten note:

I hope one day we can share in your music together.

I can’t breathe. There is nothing but this pain. This endless, empty despair. The tears are falling in earnest now and I don’t bother trying to stop them. I wrench myself away from my room, needing to get away from the trace of her.

Everything starts to go black as I see the vase full of flowers on my table. The flowers she likely bought. I grab the vase and throw it against the wall.

The crash sounds good. It sounds like me.

So I do it again, and again, and again.

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