Chapter 22 #2
Coming from me? Probably. I suck out all the air in the room. Who’d want to be around that?
I lay on my side, curled up on the floor, and clenched my eyes shut.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
Just leave me the fuck alone.
Stop bringing it all back.
Fucking stop.
But not a second later, I was back in that hospital room, staring at his swollen hand.
The wave came—and this time, it stayed. My chest tightened. I curled deeper into myself and let it crash over me.
Helpless.
Drowning in it.
Why was I even trying in the first place?
To: matiasrossi@
From: noah12r@
Subject:
I don’t know why I’m even writing this. I figured maybe after everything that happened with Dad, you’d still want to talk.
Fuck if I know. I don’t have anybody else to talk to.
Lan and Mom aren’t talking right now. They didn’t fight.
She’s just gone, and I guess I don’t blame her for wanting to run away from everything.
Hell, I’m in LA right now, and I really don’t want to go back. Did you know she got a new place? The house is gone, along with all of his things. I managed to get my drums back and one of his guitars, the signed one. I’ve got them in storage for now.
I talked to Richard about the rumors. He said Dad never lied. He said the men he worked with did, and that scared him. I think it scares me too. I don’t want people to hate him. He’s fucking dead already.
It’s almost Christmas.
I’m taking antidepressants, but I’m not doing so well. I don’t know if they’re working or not, honestly. I don’t feel very different. Just maybe less hopeful than before.
Do you feel better? Miss him less? I know you were mad at him before he died, but he’s still Dad. And I guess I just want to know if maybe it does get better. It doesn’t feel like it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad in my life.
I don’t know what to do about Mom. It’s horrible, dodging her calls, knowing she’s asking for money, having Richard call me and tell me she ran out.
I’ve been sending Jaz money to get her groceries, to make sure she’s actually feeding everybody, because she doesn’t show up and doesn’t give a fuck. I’m also worried she’s not doing okay.
But she doesn’t care, Mati. I don’t think she does. I don’t know who to talk to. I don’t know who’d care. I feel so fucking alone.
It’s bad. Things are pretty fucking bad. And I’m not talking about outside. They’re pretty fucking bad in my head. I keep having these thoughts, like maybe I’d drink too much and never wake up, and what I feel is relief. I haven’t slept in a while. Maybe I just need sleep.
I’ve been having nightmares about Dad. They’re not really all that bad when I’m asleep. He’s alive and we’re talking, and then suddenly, I’m awake and it hits me like a punch in the gut that it’s not real. It makes it worse. So much worse.
I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to do this.
I give up.
I fucking give up.
I give
I don’t think I’ll send this. You probably don’t give a fuck about me anyway.
Not probably.
You don’t.
The Titans Under Scrutiny: Global Authorities Launch Probe into High-Stakes Market Manipulation
Among those named in the widening investigation is Federico Rossi, the elusive Argentinian financier, who rose from obscurity to build a billion-dollar empire.
Long celebrated for his rags-to-riches ascent and high-profile marriage to international icon Andrea Ríos, Rossi—who passed away earlier this year—now casts a shadow over his family’s legacy as authorities question whether the fortune he left behind was amassed through deception and unethical—
I locked the door behind me. Or maybe I just closed it—I couldn’t tell anymore. The music thumped loudly on the other side, but I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t pretend. Not tonight.
I just wanted to get the fuck out of this place.
Can’t, though. Can’t kick them out.
My nose wouldn’t stop dripping, constant and annoying, like the bitter taste clinging to the back of my throat. Another nosebleed tonight. They always left me feeling wrecked, like I was a waste of space who didn’t even deserve to be here.
I’m so fucking done with this. I fucking hate it.
I walked into the bathroom, my bare feet soft and uncertain on the floor. The tiles felt cold, but also not real—like my skin wasn’t registering it properly. The two orange bottles were stacked neatly by the sink. Sometimes I could swear they were looking at me.
I can’t deal with this on my own.
I’m weak.
I’m broken.
Who the hell is ever going to love me like this?
What a waste of a person.
I swayed, my balance off with everything coursing through my bloodstream. The mirror shimmered a little, or maybe my vision did.
I’m done. This needs to be done.
I uncapped the first bottle. Only a few pills left.
Huh. Can’t even do this right.
I reached for the second bottle. Filled to the brim. That’s better. Enough.
Funny, right? Finally enough.
Meeting my eyes in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My gaze dragged across my own reflection, unfocused.
That’s not me. It doesn’t look like me. It doesn’t feel like me.
My hands trembled as I tipped the pills back—no idea how many, but enough. I almost walked away, then grabbed the other bottle and swallowed those, too, for good measure.
The bed dipped under my weight. Light filtered through the blinds, hazy and soft, as if the room had sunk underwater. Maybe it was morning now.
My eyes felt so heavy, just like the rest of my body.
Should I write a note?
Why?
For who?
Nobody fucking cares.
My eyelids fluttered closed once.
Twice.
At least I’ll finally get some rest.