Still Beating

My head is pounding when I wake up the next morning to a muted light trickling in through a nearby window. At first, I think I’m back in that basement. It’s day number sixty-three and the endless cycle of torture and mind-numbing madness continues. I instinctively begin tugging at chains that don’t exist, and when I snap back to reality in a cold sweat, I realize that the chains do still exist—they are the invisible kind.

Those might be the worst kind.

I rub the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my palms, sitting up on my elbows and taking in my surroundings.

I’m in Mandy’s bedroom.

“Good morning.”

My head flicks to the right. Mandy is sitting beside me, holding a glass of water and a bottle of Advil, her expression somewhat melancholy. Mandy drove back to the bar to pick me up five minutes later, too wracked with guilt to leave me there. I was grateful… though, I wonder if I truly deserved the courtesy. She brought me back to her apartment, and I plowed through the leftover alcohol from her New Years party, passing out a few hours later.

I sit up all the way, leaning back against her blush pink, upholstered headboard. I pop three pills and drink the water she hands to me, then set the glass down on the nightstand, sighing as I run a hand along my face. “I’m sorry.”

I’ve been saying that word a lot lately.

I’m sorry I’m still fighting a battle I can’t win. I’m sorry I’m a mess, drinking away my problems. I’m sorry my head is filled with dark, depressing thoughts that often consume me. I’m sorry I can’t touch the woman I’m supposed to marry. I’m sorry I can’t fix the woman who won’t let go of my heart.

I’m sorry I keep fucking up.

I’m sorry I’m wasting my second chance.

Mandy looks over at me with her raccoon eyes and mess of blonde hair. “You left me alone in the bar, stuck paying the dinner bill, to chase my sister into her car, Dean.”

Shit.

I’m really sorry for that.

“It’s not what you think, Mandy. It’s not… it’s not like that. We’re trying to get through this shit together, and I’m not handling it well.” I puff my cheeks with air and let out a hard breath. “There’s no handbook, or guide, or Surviving Life After Earl’s Torture Chamber For Dummies. There’s literally no one else out there like us because he murdered them all. We’re an anomaly—we’re not supposed to be here, and it’s fucking me up.”

Mandy reaches out a tentative hand, resting it atop my own. “I’m trying to be patient, I really am. But when you’re always running to her and away from me, it hurts. I should be the one helping you through this. I should be your anchor.”

“I know,” I say, my voice pitching. “Trust me, I know.”

She squeezes my fingers in her warm hand, offering me a wistful smile. “Maybe you need medication…” she suggests.

“I’m not sick, Mandy.”

“You are sick. You have PTSD… you were tossing and turning all night, sometimes yelling and shaking the bed. You haven’t figured out your car situation, or when you’re going back to work, or how you’re going to pay for anything when your savings runs out. You drink all day, every day. You haven’t said a word about the wedding. You won’t touch me or kiss me—in fact, it seems like you don’t even want me around.” Mandy ducks her head, biting back tears. “You’re not okay, and I don’t know how to help you.”

I don’t know how to help me, either.

“I think I just need time.”

I can see her scanning my face, trying to read me, out of the corner of my eye. Mandy pulls back and starts wringing her hands together, inhaling sharply. “Do you need time away from me? Do you need space?”

I run my tongue along the roof of my mouth, rolling my jaw. “I just need time to think, I guess. I don’t know.”

“To think about if you want to spend the rest of your life with me or not?” Her voice sounds scared, edging on panicked.

I glance at her. “I don’t know, Mandy. I don’t know what I want anymore.”

I thought I knew what I wanted. I had my future all set up, locked in, ready to go. Mandy and I have always been good together. It’s been easy and low key. No drama. Minimal fighting. Maybe a little stale at times, but that’s bound to happen when you’re with the same person for one and a half decades.

But now I feel like something’s always been missing.

That spark.

A profound connection.

Fun.

I feel like I’m a different person and Mandy hasn’t changed at all. I’m evolving, and she’s stagnant. I’m picking apart all the things that make us different, all of our flaws and missing parts. I care about Mandy, absolutely, but do I love her?

Have I ever?

Maybe… maybe, but it’s always been a shallow kind of love. Comfortable. Surface deep.

We have no scars, no battle wounds. We haven’t been to Hell and back, or clung to each other in the shadows, crying, shaking, expelling the dirtiest pieces of our soul together.

Is that what I want?

Fuck. I throw my legs over the side of the bed, feeling mixed up and shaken. I bury my face into my hands, flinching when Mandy places her fingertips against the small of my back.

“Think about what you really want, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.” She rubs my back in soft and steady motions, up and down, back and forth. “I have a bridal party coming into the salon for updos in an hour, so I’ll drop you off at home on the way. Feel free to take a shower or eat or something. I’m going to get dressed.”

I feel the mattress lift up as she stands, her footsteps making their way out of the room, the door shutting gently behind her. I tent my fingers and stare at the wall.

What the fuck do I want?

I’m sitting in front of the television that evening, keeping my eyes away from the kitchen where a brand new bottle of vodka beckons me from the top of the refrigerator. I’m torn between throwing it over my balcony into the wetlands and polishing off the whole damn thing, just so I can go numb and pass the fuck out.

Or die.

I’d probably die, and it’s concerning how unaffected I am by that prospect.

Maybe Mandy was right about the medication thing.

I’m still deciding what to do when I hear my phone buzzing beside me on the little wooden table. I reach for it, surprised to see Cora’s name attached to a long string of text messages coming through.

Cora: I’m sorry about what I said.

Cora: I think.

Cora: The truth is I had a few glasses of wine so now I’m a little loopy and confused and normally we would be talking on the phone right now but we’re not because I told you to leave me alone and I kind of regret that.

Cora: Don’t judge me for that awful run on sentence. My eyes are bleeding just looking at it. Please delete it.

Cora: Anyway, I’m going to try and sleep. I don’t hate you. I know I said you’re holding me underwater but you’re the only thing keeping me afloat.

Cora: Goodnight.

Cora: Delete that run on sentence please.

I find myself smiling down at my phone, debating if I should reply, or if I should call her, or if I should Uber it over to her house and hold her until she falls asleep.

Maybe I should ignore her.

Maybe she was right about everything.

I tap my thumb against the side of my phone, pursing my lips together as I consider my next move.

Then I shoot her a quick reply:

Me: Goodnight, Cora.

I head to bed, minus the vodka.