Page 133 of The Blessing

I pass by bars and liquor stores; I want nothing more than to pull over and drown my sorrows in a bottle. However, I’m too fucking agitated to turn off the main road. I don’t want to get out of the car because I know I’ll beat the shit out of the very first person I see. I certainly don’t need to end up in jail on top of everything else tonight. So, I press down on the gas pedal and speed down the road without giving into the temptations surrounding me.

My inner strength doesn’t last long. I can see a dive bar ahead and I just can’t fucking help myself. It’s fairly dead, and oh, so fucking tempting. There’s only a few cars in sight as I park outside the entrance. Getting out of my truck I practically stumble inside, not bothering to lock it up because I simply don’t give a rat’s ass anymore. The bar is dark, and it’s as unwelcoming on the inside as it was on the outside. I smile at this as I walk to the bar top to order a drink.

Throwing a five-dollar bill down, I say, “Bourbon, straight,” before slouching on a barstool.

As soon as the bartender hands me my drink, I down it and ask for another before wandering off to a table in the bar’s darkest corner. I just want to be fucking alone. The bartender sets the drink on the table in front of me. I throw him another five and he walks away. I stare at the drink but I don’t make a move. My body is shaking with anger, but now the anger is directed at myself. You’re fucking better than this, Trevor! How can you do this to your family? Don’t they matter? Fresh tears well up in my eyes. I violently wipe them away as I continue to stare at the bourbon that seems to be fucking taunting me.

Without having a second thought, I ball my hand up into a fist and slam it down hard on the glass. How the fuck are you doing this again!? Why are you doing this again, Trevor!? Stop with your self-contempt and think about your fucking family! The excruciating pain feels incredible. It makes me feel fucking alive. I watch my blood pour out of my cuts and seep into the grooves of the old wood table, staining it with a beautiful dark red. The alcohol burns my open wounds and it feels so fucking cleansing. I hear shouts and look up to see a fuming bartender coming toward me. I’m too far gone to hear what he’s saying to me, but by the looks of him, it’s not fucking good.

With tears running down my emotionless face and my bloody hand clenched under my leather jacket, I leave the bar without an apology and head out to my truck. Sitting in my truck I’ve started to sober up. My hand is bleeding all over the place but I make no attempt to take care of it. My mind is so mixed up with unwelcome thoughts and feelings and I don’t know how to cope.

I mindlessly reach for my phone and dial the number of the person I know will help me. He picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?” he questions, his voice tired but concerned.

I suppose house calls are never fucking good if you’re a therapist.

“Dr. Russell, it’s Trevor Warren,” I stutter out. “I need to see you.”

I wonder if he can hear the pain brewing in my voice because even in my haze I definitely can.

I hear fumbling around on his end before he finally states, “Meet me at my office. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” I quietly respond before ending the call.

I find an old rag from work in the backseat and wrap it around my hand, pulling the cloth tight to cut off the flow of blood. I know it’s dirty as fuck, but I can’t seem to care. After covering up my wounded hand I place both hands on the steering wheel. Everything in my life is fucked now. Of course, the moment I thought things were going well, something comes along to mess it the hell up. Just like it always does. I don’t know why I hoped for anything different. I guess it was just wishful fucking thinking.

I turn the key in the ignition and listen as my truck roars to life. I rub my hand vigorously against my face to wake myself up before quickly backing out of the parking lot and heading toward Dr. Russell’s office. Still reeling with disbelief, I almost drive through a couple of stop signs since my mind is lost completely. As I drive, staring off into the dark road illuminated only by my headlights, my mind begins to wander. I try to stop it, not wanting to travel to the dark places which it could easily go, but I’m just too fucking tired to have control over anything.

I think about my brother just like Travis described him. Sitting in the front seat of his car next to his dead wife, gasping for air as he looks at the man he called his friend for the very last time. Although I wasn’t there, I can vividly imagine the look on Dean’s face. The look of horror, disbelief, and disappointment flits through my mind. I gasp for air as I imagine my brother did when he was looking at his murderer. My chest tightens. I can barely fucking breathe. I imagine him looking at Travis, a silent question playing on my brother’s face, “What have you done, my friend?” The thought is fucking sickening, but I can’t dismiss it. I imagine the blood on his face and the shock in his eyes as he looks at Cat—the woman who was his entire world. I can imagine Travis’s face, as well, as he stared into Dean’s car and witnessed exactly what the fuck he had done. I hope what he saw fucking stuck with him. I want him to carry that pain forever and have nightmares from it for the rest of his miserable life. I hope it fucking eats him alive.

How could he just drive away and leave them there like a piece of meaningless garbage? How could he not fucking care enough to call for help? My brother could’ve survived if Travis had called for help the second it all happened! Dean could’ve had a fighting chance, but instead, by the time someone drove past their car and called for help, it was too late. He went to the hospital in critical condition, knowing his wife was already dead. Grey was at home with Evelyn, waiting for his parents to return from their date, having no notion of what had happened. A sob escapes me as I violently wipe away the tears which betray me and stream down my face. Stop crying you fucking bastard!

I know it’s completely illogical, but I should’ve fucking been there. I should’ve been here to help Dean in some way. I would’ve done anything for him. Fuck, I’d gladly take his place right now. Like I’ve said to myself many times, if anyone deserves to die young—it’s me. My sadness slowly turns back into uncontrolled anger.

How the fuck could my friend rip my brother away from me? Didn’t he think about anyone other than himself as he drove drunk that night? Didn’t he think of Grey—the baby he made an orphan by taking the lives of his parents? Didn’t he think about me? I was his friend, too… he had destroyed everything in my life in a blink of an eye. How could he look me in the fucking eye after all of that shit? How dare he even try to talk to me again! Hasn’t he done enough fucking damage? What more could he possibly want?

I’m fucking fuming by the time I arrive at Dr. Russell’s office. I find his car is already parked outside. Actually, it’s the only car in the entire parking lot aside from my truck. I find him waiting for me at the office’s entrance. He’s bundled up in a huge winter coat and a hat to protect his face from the freezing January night. It’s then I realize how fucking absurd I must look in just my leather jacket in this weather. Thankfully, the anger and adrenaline when courses through my fucking veins has kept me warm. I walk up to Dr. Russell and stand next to him, antsy as he fumbles with his keys and tries to open the front door.

“Wait a second, Trevor. Wait,” he says in a commanding voice. His tone surprises me and I step back, so I’m not crowding him as he works on getting the proper key into the lock.

I give him some space and try to calm myself down. I don’t know what the fuck I want to do, but I want to do something. I have to do something! The sting of betrayal is too much for me to fucking bear. I run my hands through my hair and yank on it until I feel the roots sting. Dr. Russell takes one look at me, sees my bloodied wrapped up hand, and frowns. He looks sad, but even in my distressed state I can tell his look is neither pitying nor judgmental. He ushers me inside and follows me as I barrel down the hallway toward his office. He quickly unlocks and opens the door before flipping on the lights. I don’t look at him. I merely walk straight to my usual seat and put my head in my hands.

“What happened?” he asks, pulling his chair close to mine before taking a seat.

I shake my head, unable to speak. I wipe my face with my good hand and try to keep the tears that are pricking my eyes from rolling down my cheeks. “Something happened,” I gasp, unable to meet his gaze. “Something horrible. I just don’t know what the fuck to do. I don’t know what to do,” I say on the verge of hysteria. I’m so scared that I’ll lose myself all over again. What if I do? What if I forget the man I’ve worked so hard to become?

“Take a deep breath and try to calm yourself, then explain to me what happened,” Dr. Russell firmly suggests, his voice is the slap in the face I fucking need.

“Travis…” I begin, taking a shuddering breath. “Travis was the one.”

“The one what?”

“The one who killed them,” I gasp, finding it devastating to say the words aloud. “I heard him confess to the whole fucking thing.”

Dr. Russell’s eyes widen for a moment, and he leans back in his chair. I watch him as he runs a hand through his hair and looks at me for a pregnant moment. It’s as if he were assessing my mental state or some shit like that. I’m sure whatever he sees isn’t good.

“How did you feel once you heard this?”