Page 3 of Carter

Those words settle on me like a heavy, suffocating wool blanket. It makes me itchy, hot, and uncomfortable.

I almost tell him it’s impossible. That just doesn’t happen. I almost tell him that you could know someone for years—my parents—and you may still never know what they’re capable of.

You could marry someone, have children with them, make them dinner every fucking day, and they still wouldn’t love you.

I don’t, though. Because that’s my shit, and I don’t need to put my shit on him or anyone else. I need to bury it deep, make it disappear, like I always do.

Words come to me, and I don’t know from where. It’s like a revelation, something that should be advice to myself but I think it’s a crock of shit. But I say it to him because maybe it’s what he needs to hear. Sometimes I’m good at that—saying the right thing even though I know it’s the biggest pile of bullshit to ever exist.

“I think people find their endings everywhere, all the time. And just like when someone’s time is up, you never know the moment yours is starting.”

Chapter two

Carter

My eyes peel open, the pounding in my head a nice reminder that I drank way too much last night. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this and now I remember why. I try to recall the night but can only make out foggy flashes of different moments that could be part of dreams I had last night instead of reality.

I don’t even know how I got home. But here I am with a migraine setting in and an overwhelming side of guilt.

Wait—is it Saturday?

I think back on my days and can’t be sure. Maybe it’s Saturday. Could be Friday. Maybe it’s Tuesday.

“Fuck,” I mutter, closing my eyes and pulling the blankets up to my chin. But only for a moment because if it is Saturday, I need to get up and get going.

I grab my phone to check the date and time so I can prepare myself for the day.

Yep. It’s Saturday. That’s what gets me out of bed. Had it been Tuesday, maybe I would have called out. But never on Saturdays.

On Saturday mornings, I volunteer at the Winward Animal Shelter a few blocks away. It’s not mandatory, but it keeps me going. It’s something I enjoy. So I do it. Because all I have left these days is my routine.

I start the coffee pot, take aspirin for my head, and hop in the shower to rinse off the night sweats and stench of alcohol. With the towel wrapped around my waist, I head into my bedroom and find something to wear, eying the stack of boxes in the corner that’ll probably be there when they find my body rotting in here after I’ve died of old age.

My to-go cup is in the sink, dirty, so I wash it before filling it to the top with coffee.

I fix my hair. Brush my teeth. Throw on my puffy jacket because it’s winter in New York, meaning it’s freezing. It doesn’t deter me though. The cold is something I can feel, something that reminds me I’m still alive. I live for those little moments now. It’s all I’ve got left.

As I’m heading down the stairs of my building, because the elevator is a death trap, something hits me.

"I think people find their endings everywhere, all the time."

My hand tightens around the railing as more memories of last night filter through. I was talking to someone. A cop. I shove my hand into my pocket and feel the familiar shape of a business card. I pull it out.

New Beginnings Trauma Recovery Center

Individual Counseling

Grief Support Groups

Survivor Resources

I told him I wasn’t suicidal, and I don’t know why that was the first thing that popped into my head. I guess I just wanted him to know that I’m not. Because I’m not. I’m surviving. I’m not the happiest person in the world, but I definitely don’t want to die. I’m grateful to be alive. I just don’t understand why I am whenhe’snot.

I shove the card back into my pocket because maybe I will need to give it to someone one day, and I keep going down the stairs until I reach the main hall. It’s wide enough for people to pass by on either side, but it smells like piss and mold. The tenants here are mostly quiet, but I haven’t made friends with anyone. Not even with the people who live on the same floor as me.

It’s not the greatest apartment, but it’s New York and everything is fucking expensive. This is what I can afford on my own, so this is where I live.

The cold air hits me like a slap to the face and it’s hard to breathe for a moment. Once I get going, my breath puffs out in clouds of white smoke, my hands already feeling numb.