Page 42 of End It All

I made it upstairs to my place and opened the door, ready to eat and crash into the bed. I took a single step inside and froze.

"What the fuck is this?"

I checked the door. 4C in dirty brass was right there on the wood. That was for sure my apartment number. If I wasn't in so much fucking pain, I'd go back outside to make sure I was in the right apartment building. There was music coming from the kitchen, and I stepped further inside.

My floor was clear and the couch was void of any pizza boxes. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen it. I'd forgotten it was an ugly, gray-blue color that had more stains than the floor.

"Blake!" I shouted. "????????????."I'm going to hurt him.

There was an audible crash before Blake came rushing out of my bedroom. His hair was tied back and he had a black bandana on top of his head. A fitted black tee and sweatpants completed his ensemble. It would have been hot, if it wasn't for the fact all my shit was gone.

"Where's my stuff?"

"Holy fuck! What happened to you, Quincy? You need to go to the hospital."

I waved off the concern, even if it felt funny. Normally, no one gave a damn. "Answer my goddamn question."

"What stuff? There was trash everywhere, anything that seemed important I put away."

"Why?" I moved too fast and caught myself as a wave of dizziness came over me.I might have a concussion.

"Shit, shit. Should I call someone?"

"No."

"But you're covered in blood and you're hurt."

His worried face made me laugh. "Most of the blood isn't mine, it's just a few bruises and cuts. I'll be fine." Not that there was anyone to call. I wasn't about to inform Harlow, and besides him, I had no one who'd bat an eye at me being injured.

"Why don't you sit down," Blake suggested.

"Put my shit back where it was."

"You want me to put trash back into the apartment?" Blake shook his head. "You can breathe in here now.”

No, I couldn't. It felt too open, too exposed. I knew logically that it was better, but after being raised by a hoarder who kept every single thing, the clutter became a safety net. I hated it, but without it, I couldn't stop the itch under my flesh. I was ready to start pulling at the freshly forming scabs to relieve some of the distress. The only place I'd had free of the mess was my room. I had a damn system.

"Now," I bit out.

"I tossed it in the trash," Blake said.

There was no way this was happening right now. I looked around. He'd even found books and stacked them up on the coffee table, ones that I'd forgotten I had. It was the first thing I turned over. Everything crashed onto the floor, spilling over. It wasn't enough. There was too much freed up space. I went around the place knocking everything over and tossing random shit onto the floor. Nothing was enough; it was like the cavern in the middle of my chest was constantly hollow.

"Fuck."

"Quincy," Blake said wearily. "I?—"

"Shouldn't have touched my shit! The sooner you get the fuck out of my space the better." I tugged my shirt off, hissing at the pain that followed. I needed a shower and to get the fuck away from Blake, before I added his dead body to the mess in the living room.

I staredafter Quincy as he slammed his way into the bedroom and then the bathroom. For a while, I was able to hold my shoulders back, my head up. Until he was gone. My shoulders dropped as I stared after him.

What the fuck? What did I do wrong?

Once he left, I'd made use of my time cleaning up the apartment. He was the one that told me not to leave and snapped a fucking tracker on my ankle! So, I used the solitude to clean and disinfect every inch of the place.

Finally, you could see where you were walking. You could breathe. There was no dirt on the floor, no dust on the windows, no boxes on the sinking couch. I had even put in an order to replace it all together so he would have something to sit on thatwasn't sagging cushions covered in who knows what. At least the money my father gave me would go to something useful.

Turning, I stared at the bedroom door. I hadn't expected his praise, but I also hadn't expected him to be pissed off either. The upturned table and all my hard work littered the floor. I swallowed the ball of emotions in my throat and tried to contain the anger in my chest. Part of me wanted to punch a hole in one of his walls, and the other part of me wanted to punch a hole through his ungrateful, swollen face.