47. Venetia
W est is gone.
The weight of that reality settles in, and I finally grasp the seriousness of the situation. I had felt so tired, so lost, that I couldn’t fully wrap my mind around what had happened. A part of me still hoped he was out getting breakfast for us.
But he’s gone. A whole day had passed, and it was only a few hours after he shut the door behind him that I got out of the room to search for him. My period cramps are replaced with a wrenching anxiety that twists and turns my stomach like never before. The despair is a physical weight, a choking vine that wraps around my limbs. The words, a relentless drone, echo in my ears, their rhythm a mockery of my misery.
He’s not coming back. He left me. Something could have happened to him. He might’ve gotten high and passed out or even overdosed.
The image of him lying helpless in a pool of vomit flashes through my mind, flooding me with a cocktail of despair, fear, and agony, as though I’m the one enduring the withdrawal.
Paranoia started to grip me, but I pushed it away and went out to look for him. Dressed in the baggy clothes he bought me, my hair tucked under a baseball cap and oversized sunglasses hiding most of my face, I was unrecognizable. I asked around the neighborhood and visited some bars in the area, but he was nowhere to be found.
Now, I’m back in the motel room, clueless about what to do next. I don’t know where to go, and I can’t ask anyone for help. Only now do I realize how little I actually know about this side of West—the reckless, broken part that acts on impulse and craves nothing but his chemical high. I’m left with nothing but fragile hope that fades with every second I spend within these walls. Every inch of my body trembles, both from fear and the chill that envelops me. I’m not even sure if it’s truly freezing in here, but my emotions get the best of me.
I stare at the door, silently begging for it to click open and for a tall silhouette to appear in the doorway. Each time I hear footsteps, I hope it’s him. But the door never opens.
At the reception desk, I noticed the calendar hanging on the wall. The whole day has passed, and it’s October 25 already. His birthday. I didn’t even buy him anything. I don’t even know what will make him happy. In all the years we’ve worked together, I’ve never seen him celebrate his birthday. Not once have I witnessed anyone congratulate him or acknowledge this day, as if it never existed. Now that he’s gone, the realization strikes me even harder—he’ll spend it high and utterly alone.
Thoughts like stones gather in my chest, pulling me down. The world loses its sharpness, everything blurs and fades. I try to fight against the pull, but the void is relentless, dragging me into its depths.
I feel so tired.
So utterly fucking tired.
I wake to a world of glaring sunlight, my eyes protesting the sudden intrusion. The open window, a forgotten betrayal, exposes me to the chill breeze that skims across my skin. It feels as if I’m naked, vulnerable to the day’s gaze.
The sound of the door opening breaks the silence, and shock rushes over me. I turn, my heart skipping a beat. Even through the fog of sleep, I recognize him.
He’s here.
He’s back.
The world dissolves into a dizzying kaleidoscope as I rise, a throbbing pain pulsating at my temples. His image comes into focus, a canvas splashed with mud and sweat. His hair, a wild storm of dark cobwebs, clings to his forehead, and his eyes... they’re vast, consuming pools of anguish. Red rivers course through the whites, and tears, like shimmering diamonds, cling to the edges of his lashes.
My lips quiver, and a sudden weakness floods my limbs. It’s like the air has been sucked from the room, leaving me gasping for breath. A vise-like grip constricts my chest, and I fight to regain control.
I’m not fast enough to close the distance between us before he does it, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pulling me impossibly closer. I squeeze my eyes shut, a cry ripping from my chest. I call his name, but I don’t think he can hear me. His grip is so tight, painfully so, yet it’s the one I need right now.
Because I don’t want him to let me go.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, burying his nose in my hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring you breakfast, Netia.”
I shake my head, trying to convey that it’s okay, that I’m not mad, but the lump in my throat chokes off any attempt at words. It becomes harder for both of us to stand, and we sink to our knees. I can hear the thudding of his heart, and I know—I fucking know it’s worse than I thought.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry ?—”
These two words keep slipping past his lips, and since I can’t find my voice, I pull back, grabbing his face in my hands. He tries to turn away, unwilling to reveal what I can already see in his eyes.
“He’s trying to hurt you,” he mumbles, gripping my shoulders tightly and closing his eyes. “He hurt me, and he’s going to try to hurt you, but I won’t let him.”
“Who?” I ask, my thumbs brushing across his stubble in an attempt to keep him grounded. “Baby, what are you talking about?”
I force his face up, and when he opens his eyes, his gaze darts behind me. Shock paints his features before morphing into pure fear. He yanks himself free from my grip, his back slamming against the wall. “It’s in the room with us. Fuck, it’s in the room?—”
Fear creeps up my spine, chilling me to the core. I turn my head to see what terrifies him, but all I find is empty space.
“I just wanted him to stop making me do that,” he says between sobs, each one shaking his chest. “But he would never stop, and now he’s here, and he wants to hurt you just like he hurt me!”
I rise to my knees, trying to shield him from whatever hallucination haunts him, but he scoots into the corner. Sweat beads drip down his face as he begins to hyperventilate, his hands brushing against the floor, the wall, and his clothes, desperately seeking some sort of purchase.
“Nobody is going to hurt you,” I promise, moving closer, grasping at the fraying edges of my own sanity. I want him to reach for me, to feel the warmth of my presence, to understand he’s not alone. “Just look at me, West. Look?—”
“It’s flying around the room! Why can’t you see that?!” he shouts, the power of his voice echoing through the space. I flinch, my hands shaking as they reach for his face, unwilling to let go.
“What did you take?” I ask, trying my best to keep my tone gentle. “Baby, what was it?”
He stops moving for a moment, his body going rigid. “I—” he trails off, finally locking eyes with me. “I don’t know… I don’t fucking know. Please don’t be mad at me?—”
“I’m not mad,” I interrupt, dispelling any doubts. “Just let me hold you, West. Let me help you feel safe.”
Another heavy sob shakes his chest, and in an instant, he throws himself onto my legs, wrapping his arms around them and pressing his cheek against them. I run my fingers through his hair, leaning in to kiss the top of his head.
“Don’t leave me, please,” he begs, his lips brushing against the fabric of my sweatpants. He cracks, the chips tumbling in a waterfall of sorrow, his body trembling in my arms as I desperately try to hold him together. “I don’t want you to go, Netia. I don’t want you to go .”
“I’m never going to leave you.” The words pour out as though I’ve been holding them back for far too long. I try to convince myself I’m saying this simply because of his condition, but there’s a part of me that knows it’s more authentic—more real.
A crack forms in the wall of my indifference, breaking through years of silence, and in that instant, I vow to hold him until the pain subsides, until the weight of his suffering turns to dust beneath us.
“I’ll try to be better.” His promise is a fragile, rain-soaked whisper, tinged in the despair churning beneath the surface. “I’ll try hard. Just don’t leave me again, baby girl. Don’t leave.”
“I’m here. I won’t leave you, West. I won’t .”
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said the same thing, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that with each repetition, I can feel him calming down, his tremors easing. I don’t know how long we’ve been like this—me kneeling on the floor with him resting his head on me, his hands clutching my legs as if terrified I might slip away, tears soaking into my clothes. It feels like forever, and my heart continues to ache for him, even as he slowly drifts into sleep.
The side of my head rests against the cool wall, my hand a constant presence in his hair, massaging his scalp and finding solace in the shared touch.
We’re both anchored here, the thought of leaving a distant echo. I shut my eyes, letting the quiet embrace us, providing him with the warmth and love he needs, realizing, deep down, that the beliefs I once forced myself to hold have now turned to dust.