A sticky warmth runs down my shoulder and over my chest. Searing pain leaks from the base of my neck. I reach up to feel the source, wincing sharply at the raw sting of pain at the touch. Blood drips to the floor pooling quickly at my feet. I can feel a breeze of cold air between where my shredded clothing clings together, sticking to my skin with sweat.
A hollow rumbling laughter echoes through my ears as my eyes search frantically to find where it’s coming from. ‘
I can’t find my voice through my ragged breathing, my throat feels raw as if I’ve been screaming.
“I’ll get years of use out of you.” Murphy’s shape appears before me, grabbing me by the throat and squeezing hard.
I try to scream as black starts to flood into the edges of my vision.
–
I wake thrashing hard in my bed gasping for the air that was being withheld from my lungs. Tears pour from my sleepless, red eyes. My feet slide out to the cold floor that I don’t notice beneath me. Sitting up at the edge of the bed for a minute, dropping my head into my hands, panting and choking. I push myself from the bed stumbling through the doorway and across the apartment to the fridge, knocking over picture frames and knickknacks with loud crashes to the floor, using the walls to hold myself as upright as I can manage.
Throwing the door of the freezer open and slamming it into the wall, I grab the bottle of cheap rum from the shelf. Just managing not to smash it on the floor as the icy jug threatens to slip from my lazy grasp. I try to pour myself a small glass but miss completely, spilling the honey brown liquor all over the counter. Kneeling down I slurp as much as I can from the edge as it drips to the floor, barely avoiding falling on my ass.
The freezer door closes with another heavy slam causing the refrigerator to shake against the force, glass jars and bottles clank against each other inside. Taking the bottle with me to the couch I take a swig, dripping some from the corners of my mouth onto the loose fitting flannel button up that sits hanging from one shoulder. The sofa sinks under my weight and I throw my head backwards groaning, immediately regretting it as the motion makes my stomach churn from the spinning in my head.
Looking out over the apartment, garbage and mostly full instant meal containers litter the surfaces and floor. Beer cans lay about, sticky stains beneath them, some crushed from being stepped on in my drunken stupor. When the cases of beers didn’t work the first few days I’d moved onto something harder, still unable to sleep more than 30 minutes at a time. My greasy hair weighed down by crusty strands caked in beer and bits of vomit hangs in the edges of my vision. The flannel smells like I’ve been wearing it for a month from the night sweats during glimpses of sleep.
A glint of light reflects from the black surface of my phone peeking out from beneath the chair across from me. I haven’t seen it since day one. With my vacation days almost used up, I start to wonder how I’ll get enough sleep and sober up to go back to work. I groan again at the thought of sobering up to deal with other people's problems. I never even wanted this stupid job. Murphy’s voice floods my mind again, “ I’ll get years of use out of you,” reminding me too much of my deal with the judge, causing me to take another long swig from the bottle rested in my lap. So will everyone else. I don’t feel the force as I bruise my leg slamming the heavy bottle back down.
A sigh escapes me as I try to crawl to my phone from the couch, reaching my hands outward toward the floor, falling face first in my attempt, kissing the hardwood beneath me. I suck in a breath and wipe my bottom lip at the stinging pain, finding blood on my finger from where my teeth sliced into it in the landing. Letting out a pained moan I pull myself across the floor to my phone slapping my hand around ungracefully until it lands. Trying my best to find the button. I struggle to unlock it and find that it’s dead. Another defeated sigh falls from my bloodied lips as I crawl back to the couch for my charger.
Fumbling unsuccessfully for a minute I finally manage to get the charger into the port. The screen lights up with a 3% and a charging symbol, I hold the power button until it goes dark and lights up again. Thankful I could at least do that right. I drop it next to me on the couch waiting for it to buzz to life. Reaching over for my cigarettes stashed in the side table, grabbing one to light I throw them back in the drawer and slam it closed. When the phone beside me buzzes repeatedly I try my best to focus my eyes on the tiny words that seem to swim around the screen, doubling and fusing back together as a flood of unanswered texts stack on top of one another.
Ignoring them, unable to read them if I tried, I swipe up and do my best to open my contacts. After clicking the wrong app 4 times I manage to open the correct one and scroll until I find the M’s in the list doing my best to pinpoint the top name. I hit the message button to see if he’s said anything while the phone was dead for 4 days. A drunken jealous anger burns from within when I don’t see anything. Probably found someone else to fuck with by now. I throw the phone against the couch cushion causing it to bounce upward and bungee back down getting caught midair by the charger grounding it.
Drunken tears swell in my eyes as I start to sob out my frustration, unable to hold in any of my emotions in this state. I yank the phone back into my grasp again and try my best to type a message. The first one comes out angry and accusatory, I at least have sense enough to think better of it and delete it. Knowing how to get his attention I send the flirtiest thing I can manage to think of in my haze.
“Yoiuu iop?” sends before I even bother to check if I’d typed it right.
Three bubbles appear and disappear immediately after the text is received on the other end but nothing comes through. A heavy sigh releases from somewhere deep in my chest, tears falling faster, turning hot with anger. I crush my finished cigarette into the lip of an empty beer can on the coffee table, putting the bottle from my lap to my lips again as there's a knock at the door and it swings open.
Mason, immediately hit with the smell of a week's worth of moldy uneaten foods, stale beer, vomit and sweat, visibly gags. His jaw drops a bit as he looks across the doorway to see me sitting in this mess, broken decor scattered around the room, a nearly empty gallon bottle of rum to my lips. Tears streaming from my sunken eyes weighed down by heavy purple bags. My shirt covered in wet stains. I lower the bottle slowly and he notices the smears of blood on my teeth and cheek. Horrified he stands still, just staring at the state of me.
“Whaat’s uuup,” I draw out excitedly spreading my arms out wide, forgetting the bottle in my hand and sloshing a bit onto the couch, tilting it a little too far as I throw my arms out.
His jaw tightens, his eyes stay hard. Just staring.
“Whaaat’s… uuuup?...” I try again, as if saying it slower will somehow ease the tension.
“What the fuck .” Is all he can manage to practically growl.
My eyes flash with fear for a moment before the alcohol wipes it away. “I can’t sleep.” I answer defiantly with a playful scowl.
I lift the jug to take another drink but it’s ripped from my hands before it can reach my waiting mouth. I gasp at the rush of movement from Mason.
“No fucking way.” He barks. “Get up.”
My bloodshot eyes search his from behind the blur as confusion sets into my face. I don’t move.
“Fine.” He lifts me from the couch and throws me over his shoulder, I throw up in my mouth, swallowing it before I puke down his back.
He sits me down in the tub and lifts my shirt off, exposing me completely to the chill of the bathroom. I don’t feel it, but my skin reacts to the cold porcelain prickling with goosebumps.
“Clean yourself up.” He orders.
Feeling like a scolded child tears well in my eyes again, his expression melts for half a second before he slams the door and waits to hear the shower start.
—
He hears the rush of water and a small yelp, he assumes from the temperature, from behind the door. Sighing he looks out at the task before him. Grumbling all the way, he fills garbage bags with empty beer cans, full tins of food, remnants of trinkets, and a few shattered light bulbs from lamps she had taken down with her. It takes him a little longer than he thought, struggling with the mixed scents of moldy and fresh food, but once it's all been gathered he heads outside to toss it into the dumpster downstairs.
When he returns the shower is still running, worry turns his stomach and he knocks on the door. When there is no answer he doesn’t wait, swinging it open he finds her asleep sitting up. The shower head lays limp in the base of the tub. Her lips are pale as the wetness of her skin aids the cold air permeating her body. Her brow is pulled tight and her eyes look squeezed in pain. She moans uncomfortably in her sleep. Knowing he can’t leave her like this he brushes a clump of wet hair from her face.
She gasps hard as if she hadn’t been breathing, looking frantically around the room trying to find her bearings. A shiver ripples through her and she wraps her arms around herself against the chill.
“Your hair is still full of puke.” He huffs.
“Sorry..” she mumbles, grabbing the shower head and trying to lift it over herself. Her chest and arms sore from falling off the couch earlier added with every muscle in her body screaming from the alcohol and dehydration.
“Give it to me.” He groans reluctantly.
She does as she's told and slides her body around so that he can reach her hair. He hastily hoses it down before shutting off the water and throwing her a towel from the rack on the wall.
—
I manage to make my way out of the tub and back to the living room, my breath stops at the view of the now clean space.
“You didn’t have to-” I start.
“No. I didn’t.” He cuts me off matter of factly.
Not wanting to push it, I move to the couch. I reach into the side table for my pack of cigarettes and light another one, Mason almost protests but decides to ignore it, lighting one of his own.
“I can’t sleep…” I try again after a long period of tense silence.
“You said that.” He answers, looking out of the back window to the parking lot below. “Is that all you’ve got?” He looks back at me, piercing me with his steel gray eyes.
I stifle a whimper that bubbles in my throat at the look. He examines my face again, the heat of the shower didn’t do much to help my sunken eyes or soothe the purple out of the bags beneath them. Bloodshot and glassy they stare back at him.
“How long?”
“What?” I breathe, genuinely confused by the question.
“How long since you’ve slept?” His tone is steady with demand and accusation.
“What day ‘ssit?”
The slur in my words causes his blood to boil. “Seriously?”
I shift in my seat.
“It’s been 5 days since you took time off of work.” he states plainly.
“How do you-?”
“I was there. I waited for you after your shift. Bobblehead said you took some time off. Figured if you wanted me to know you would have told me.” His voice teeters on bitter.
There’s a hitch in my throat at his last sentence. I forgot to tell him. I’d been so drunk by the time I decided to take my vacation days I hadn’t thought about it.
“You finally let me know and I show up to this,” he gestures to me, hammered and previously surrounded by and covered in filth.
“You didn’t have to come.” I murmur into my lap as I fidget picking at my fingers, forgetting he can hear me.
“I didn’t have to. But I did.” The statement comes out like an admission of guilt.
“Yeah…” I mumble, trying to accept what he’d said as the best I could have hoped for.
“Why can’t you sleep?” His voice stays stern.
“I don’t know.” I lie, avoiding his gaze.
“Bullshit.” He scoffs.
“It’s stupid.” shame coats my reply.
“Stupid enough for you to drink for a week that’s for sure.” another scoff erupts from his throat.
“I was just trying to fall asleep…” I try to defend myself.
“What? And never wake up?” His volume rises, the accusation slaps me in the face.
“No.. That not what I was-”
“Then what were you trying to do? Barricading yourself in here and drinking yourself half to death?” His breathing is fast now, anger coating his words thick and resolute.
“I thought it could help me sleep.” Tears well in my eyes again. My body grows stiff and defensive.
“And when it didn’t?!”
“I don’t know! I just kept drinking! I’m terrified!” I stop myself there, already having said too much. The tears spill over the surface, my cheeks flush red.
Mason stops in his tracks. “Terrified of what?” The question comes out less angry than before. Still stern, but lacking the furious accusations.
“Of Murphy.” I give up, choking out his name. A sob breaks my demeanor, I curl in on myself and desperately search for the bottle Mason had removed from my reach.
“Sweetheart..” He groans in defeat, letting go some of his anger. He moves to my side on the couch and plants his hand on my arm before quickly pulling it back. My heart skips at his touch.
Too drunk to care whether or not it pisses him off, I lean myself against him and continue to sob. The sound tightens a grip in Mason’s chest. He sighs defeated and wraps me in his arms resting his chin on top of my head. Without a word he lifts me and carries me to bed, dropping me into a pile of blankets. He climbs in behind me, wrapping an arm loosely around my waist. Within minutes my breathing is slow and steady, muscles finally relaxed against him. My face no longer holds the tension he’d seen in the bath.
—
When he’s confident her breathing has slowed enough that she’s fully asleep, Mason slips out from beneath her. He decides to watch her for a while, making sure she gets enough sleep. With his legs crossed in the chair beside her he lights a cigarette, cracking the window.
A few hours pass by while he waits diligently. When he’s certain she won’t be waking up any time soon he locks her front door and slips out of the window to fire escape.
—
The worst headache I’ve ever had in my life greets me with the morning sun. Moving groggily to the kitchen I pound down 4 ibuprofen with a glass of water. As my eyes focus to the light assaulting me from the window I look around the space, utterly devoid of the depression mess I’d left it with. I try to remember if I had suddenly decided to clean, squeezing my eyes closed trying to search my brain for what I did last night.
It only serves to make my head throb harder so I move to the couch. Dropping down, I hold my aching head in my hands. My phone is still open to the text thread with Mason. Oh god… The typo riddled “You up?” text stares back at me. I internally punish myself for the drunk text. Stupid stupid stupid. I groan from deep in my throat and push my hair back realizing in that moment it’s no longer crusted with vomit and alcohol.
Seeing as how I never got a text back, I push it from my mind. He probably didn’t even read it. I try to ignore the ache in my heart at that thought. Trying to reason with myself that I most likely used the shower to sleep while I was drunk and when that didn’t work distracted myself with cleaning up. Checking the date on my phone my stomach drops as I check the time. Fuck I’m late.
Not trusting myself to drive with my head pounding, still feeling half drunk from the week long bender, I decide to walk to work. The cold morning air helps to wake me up, whipping my face red as the chill wind tries its hardest to blow straight through me. When my stomach growls from deep in my gut it serves as a painful reminder that I haven’t eaten more than a few bites of food here and there all this time. Figuring I’m already late, I might as well stop at Haley’s for a pastry.
When I make it to the bakery I try my best to shrug off the bewildered stares from the other morning regulars, too out of it to think twice about it. I reach the counter and place my order to go, trying to keep my head down at Haley’s worried face. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she wants to. I thank her and finish walking to work.
It’s not until I reach the station and catch my reflection in the glass doors that I notice the bags under my eyes have receded slightly. I slept.. I stride triumphantly through the doors caught immediately by Tina whose jaw drops to the floor at the sight of me.
“What the hell happened to you?! You know vacation is supposed to be relaxing, right?!” She bursts out.
The scrutinizing eyes of the rest of the station all turn to me at her outburst, causing me to shift on the spot. I clear my throat and put on my best professional persona.
“I’m fine, what are we working with today?” Trying my best to brush it off but the concern sticks to Tina’s face. We move together toward my office, away from the hushed whispers and glances from the rest of the staff, to go over the current caseload.
—
As soon as work is over I receive a text from Adam stating that I’m needed at the warehouse for a briefing. I look myself over in the reflection of the office glass and purse my lips. This isn’t going to go well. Though my hair and clothes are clean and the alcohol has finally faded from hazing over my thoughts, my face is still pale and tired. Despite me being able to see the change in the depth of color, the bags under my eyes are still a deep purple. My sunken green eyes emphasized by the color. I sigh and suck it up, rubbing my face a few times before making my way out of the building.
Remembering I didn’t bring my car I groan, realizing I definitely won’t have any time to attempt to freshen up at home if I have to walk there to get it. As if splashing a little water on my face could fix any of this. I make my way through the streets until the apartment building comes into view reaching into my bag for the ancient dirty keys. I shove them into the car door lock and drop down into the seat with a heavy sigh, preparing myself to step into a building full of hyper sensitive vampires that couldn’t drop a subject to save their lives.
The silver car creaks its way up the track to the warehouse and I swipe my key card. The gate squeaks open and I putter in before it squeals to a close behind me.
When I arrive at the common room I take a deep breath before moving inside. All eyes turn to me with varied expressions of worry and shock. Even Adam can’t help but let his lips part ever so slightly, appalled. I look over my teammates, eventually landing on Mason who quickly looks away. He lights a cigarette and ignores my presence the best he can.
“Are you alright, Detective?” Nate is unsurprisingly the first to voice his concern.
“I’m alright.” I hold my hands up, trying my best to resolve the issue.
“But you look like shit.” Felix adds, earning him a harsh stare from Nate. “What? You can see her.” he mumbles defensively.
“She says she's fine, she's fine.” Mason demands from the corner. His tone hinges on knowing and indifferent. I can’t tell which.
Giving him an inquisitive glance he holds my gaze hard for a moment before directing his eyes to the floor avoiding mine. My face flushes at the possibility, but I decide to drop it. He wouldn’t…