22. It Would Be Easier

                                    

                                          
Are my eyes even open? I'm looking out at the land before me and nothing seems to spark my interest. Everything is dull. The grass looks like it's starting to die in places and the sun is running out of that liquid gold that used to make Dox's eyes shine. 
                          
Dox. Mr. Quinn. 
                          
It's been a month. Mars has tried to call me several times, but I let them all go to voicemail. Watching her name flicker across my screen until it's too late for me to reach out and answer, reminds me of Dox. 
                          
I'm washing away the physical pain as I sit here on the porch. My clothes haven't been cleaned and four empty packets of cigarettes lay at my feet. At least the vodka bottle hasn't emptied yet. 
                          
Yet. That word is sadistic. It breaks perfect promises and makes them threats. That word pours gasoline on wildflowers and as soon as it leaves your lips, it ignites. 
                          
"Come back to me Dox. Can you feel it? Can you feel my pain? Because I fucking can and I'm not sure if I'll be able to endure this much longer. Not without you." 
                          
The taste of tobacco is sharp, it cuts through your lungs and starts to create scars under your skin. It makes the most beautiful people wear the heaviest masks to hide the most grotesque creatures. 
                          
My vodka is a different story. It hasn't burned my lips since I was seventeen. It now feels as comforting as a warm coat in the middle of winter, the lifeboat that made its way out of the storm. 
                          
The only problem is, is that there is the smallest leak in the corner. A tear in the plastic and it won't be until the strong current cuts underneath of me, that I finally drown. 
                          
Drowning seems nice. Water will clean out my lungs and my body will be erased from it all. Like it never existed. 
                          
"Miss?" 
                          
"Do you believe he can hear me?" 
                          
"Maybe you should stop drinking." She whispered. 
                          
"Do you think I'm addicted?" 
                          
"Drinking, yes. Smoking, yes. Mr. Quinn, most definitely." 
                          
"Then if I'm so fucking addicted to him, then why does a small part of me still want Maverick?" 
                          
"Because Miss. Just because." 
                          
"A broken toy." I took another swig of my vodka and took a breath of my cigarette. "That's how Maverick describes me." 
                          
"You're not a broken toy Miss." 
                          
"Then why the fuck am I sitting on my porch drinking and smoking my life away while the man who loves me is out moving on?!?" I screamed smashing the bottle on the ground. "What is wrong with me? And why can't it be fixed?" I cried slumping down to the ground and grabbing the shattered glass in my hands. 
                          
I squeezed the pieces tightly and felt them dig into my skin. Soon all the tiny areas of pain morphed into a numbness. My hands were turning a dark red and cracking with the pressure. As I lay on the ground I lift the glass from my hands and drop them onto my bare thighs. I run my hands up and down making more glass go deeper. 
                          
Soon enough, there is no more pain. I'm bloody, but my body doesn't process the pain anymore and a new kind of fear makes its way into my skull before it claws at my brain. 
                          
"Do you know what I fear most Daisy?" 
                          
"No Miss." 
                          
"That one day, I'll wake up and I won't feel this agony. Instead, I'll feel nothing. The day that happens, it will be like Dox never existed at all."