Empty Bottles

I walk through the front door to find our place a mess. A chair is knocked over and the lamp you broke yesterday is still lying broken on the living room floor. I step over the shards of glass and bump my foot against the mangled lampshade to walk closer to you.

You’re asleep.

An empty bottle of gin is lying on the coffee table at the end of your outstretched arm that seems oddly connected to your limp body on the couch. I briefly wonder if it’s dislocated, but brush it off as another one of your odd ways of sleeping. Your body always looks like a torn ragdoll when you’re asleep.

I brush a strand of moist hair out of your pale and glistening face, and you suddenly open your eyes. You don’t seem groggy by sleep or tired from just waking up; you just seem groggy and tired from the alcohol. Slowly, you sit yourself up and I take a step back to give you room.

You don’t look at me, but instead just sit there and stare at the empty bottle on the table. You look guilty, but there’s a hint of nonchalance in your eyes as well.

You want to drink. I can see it in you. What I can’t see, though, is the reason.

I sit down next to you and try to make you look at me by boring my eyes into your temple, but you just keep staring at that bottle, and it hurts me. It hurts me that you seem to value liquor over me. We used to be so close, but after your drinking has taken over you, you’ve been taken away from me.

I miss you.

I place a hand on your leg to gain your attention, but all I get is a heavy sigh. It’s not a relieving sigh, though. You seem scared.

“Gerard,” I whisper, and this time I at least get a good reaction: you close your eyes. I can’t help but smile a little at that. You always have your eyes closed when you’re relaxed and content, which is why my concern for you grows when I quickly see those hazel-green orbs return to stare at the bottle.

I reach out and touch your cheek gently, stroking it carefully with the back of my hand. I can feel the stubbles on your face vibrate as my skin barely even touches them.

Again, you close your eyes and this time, you even lean your face into my hand to feel me more. I smile at you and move closer to kiss your hairline, but you suddenly pull away.

You look guiltily at the floor as you reach up to cup your cheek, as if I’d slapped you instead of caressed you.

With a jolt you shoot up out of the couch and quickly walk into the bathroom. You don’t bother closing the door, which I take as a sign that you’re not really ready to push me away completely; at least not today.

I enter the bathroom to see you standing by the sink, staring at yourself and running your long nails over your skin. I walk closer to stop you, but you do that automatically as soon as I’m beside you: your hand drops and slams against the porcelain sink.

A red line slowly appears on your cheek, and once again I caress your cheek to get you to look at me, but you still don’t. Your eyes won’t meet mine in the mirror. Instead, we’re both staring into yours.

“What’s wrong?” I ask you, but your only respond is to lower your gaze and then slowly shake your head.

You always do this. You never want to talk about what’s wrong; what’s bothering you. I know we had a fight a month ago and that we almost broke up and lost each other, but we didn’t. We’re together still, so why are you so upset? Is our fight still bothering you? Are you still mad at me? Are you afraid that I’m still mad at you?

You turn to me and a brief hope ignites in me that you will finally tell me what’s going on in your head, but instead you just drop your face into your open palms and sob loudly. I try to wrap my arms around you, but you push past me and head for the bedroom. This time, you close the door behind you.

I stand there, alone in the bathroom, for quite some time, just feeling lonely and abandoned. I wish I could just drown my sorrows like you do, or just drown them somehow. The fact that you can find release at the bottom of those bottles is something I envy. I can’t help it. I want to forget about this loneliness and this pain inside of me, but I can’t get beyond that first sip of alcohol before I start feeling sick.

But most of all, the reason why I wish I could drown my sorrows like you do is that then we could do it together.

I turn around and walk to the bedroom. You’re on our bed, facing me. The sheets are disheveled and wrapped around you in an incomprehensible way that I can’t describe with any other word than a mess.

You’re a mess, my darling.

I go lie down in front of you, our faces so close that it amazes me how you’re still able to avoid looking into my eyes. You’re looking down your nose, yet still seem not to notice my hand creep up between us. I let my fingers dance over the skin covering your jawline and you close your eyes to enjoy the unexpected feeling. I run my fingertips along the swirls of your ear and let my pinky play with your earlobe briefly, before I run my hand through your hair and wrap it around the nape of your neck.

I lean closer and envelope your lips in a kiss, covering them with mine and warming them up better than any bottle of spirits could ever do.

Please, just realize that, baby.

I pull away, but not far. My breath dances over your face and mingles with yours as you exhale.

“Just because I died, doesn’t mean I left you.”