26. Falling over the edge.
Chapter 26
Falling over the edge.
Christian
A cold dread settles in my stomach the moment I open my eyes, a premonition of impending doom that makes me want to crawl back under the covers and pretend this day doesn’t exist. But like a fool, I get up, the lure of routine proving stronger than my growing unease.
Rather than heading to the garage for work, I take a detour. A ride is the only thing that will give me a reprieve.
As soon as my bike roars to life, a hint of that doom dissipates. Speed is my only means of escape.
When I hit a straight stretch in the road, I close my and lift the visor on my helmet. The wind whips around me, and the icy air bites at my skin, a welcome sting against the numbness that’s creeping in.
It’s too cold for a ride, but I don’t care. I need this, need to feel the raw power of the machine beneath me, to feel alive, to feel anything but this suffocating craving and dread.
I don’t know where I’m going, just riding, letting the road guide me. This is my escape, my refuge from the chaos of my life.
I spot a small pull-off ahead, a sliver of green amidst the barren landscape as winter knocks on our door. I pull in next to the lone car occupying this space, the engine of my bike dying with a satisfying growl.
Curiosity piqued, I spot a trail leading toward a cluster of picnic tables. A young couple sits at one, their laughter mingling with the playful squeals of a small child running in circles.
Normally, I’d avoid human contact, but something draws me toward them, a desperate yearning for connection, for a glimpse of simple human joy. I need to find some hope in this world, and that child, with his carefree laughter, offers a glimmer of it.
When I get close, the man stands and waves. “Hi there. A little cold for a motorcycle ride, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “I like riding too much to care.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess I can appreciate that. That’s how I feel about hiking.”
“Is that why you’re out on this cold morning?” I ask.
“Yes.” The woman answers for him. He grins at her, and they share a look that expresses the love they feel for each other. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have that with Amelia. It’s the kind of love that I don’t know if I’m capable of giving.
“Yeah, you got me there.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “Not much keeps me inside. Except maybe my kids.”
The woman snorts. “Maybe not that one.” She points at the boy running around. “But I still have control of this little darling.”
I look down and see an infant against her chest. She’s got one of those baby slings wrapped around her, holding the baby close. Between her heavy coat and the knit cap on the baby’s head, I didn’t even notice it until she said something.
“How old?” I ask.
She rubs the baby’s back and smiles up at me. “This one is three months. Our son is almost four.”
“Daddy!” The boy comes running at his dad and hits him in the legs, wrapping his little arms around him. “I wanna go down there.”
“In a minute.” He pats the boy’s head. “I’m talking to this man.”
The kid looks up at me and quickly hides behind his dad like he’s just now noticing I’m here. “He’s a stranger. No talking to strangers.”
His dad chuckles. “Yeah, normally you’d be right. But it’s okay when you’re with your parents.”
“Oh.” The boy stares at me for a few more seconds before he takes off and runs toward the treeline. He finds a stick and pretends it’s a sword. Apparently, he’s already forgotten about the stranger.
“Short attention span with that one. And always on the run.” The man turns to me, his smile wide and bright. “Do you have any kids?”
“Not yet,” I say, and it feels like a lie. The baby isn’t here yet, but it’s coming whether I’m ready or not.
My chest tightens, a suffocating pressure building behind my ribs. Watching the little boy, his laughter echoing through the clearing, a strange ache blossoms in my chest. It’s a familiar ache, a longing I haven’t acknowledged in years.
I don’t want much from this world. Solitude, mostly.
And Amelia.
That’s the only constant, the one unwavering desire that anchors me.
Amelia .
But watching this family, their happiness radiating out like warmth from a fire, a new yearning stirs within me. A yearning for something I thought I’d long since buried—a yearning for belonging, for connection.
This is a stark reminder of the emptiness that has defined my life.
But can I truly have this? Can I ever hope to find that kind of joy, that kind of effortless love? The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating, a fragile seed of hope taking root in the barren wasteland of my soul.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your family outing,” I say. “I just stopped to rest before I head back home.”
“It’s fine.” The man waves at me as I turn back toward my bike. “Enjoy your ride.”
I nod slowly, the morning sun a pale ghost on my face. It feels good on my skin, a fleeting warmth against the chill that’s settled deep within me.
I feel a little better, a sliver of relief breaking through the gloom, but it’s not enough. Not enough to quell the fear that gnaws at me, not enough to offer any real hope for the future.
Until Amelia decides we have a future together, until she chooses me, this fragile sense of peace will crumble. It’s already happening.
Is this what destroyed Mom? Her love for Dad, a one-sided lifetime of devotion, met only with indifference. The rejection, the crushing weight of unrequited love, must have been unbearable. Her answer was turning to drugs, seeking solace in a fleeting oblivion, a desperate escape from the pain that consumed her.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word catching in my throat.
It all makes sense now, the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. Drugs wipe out the pain, numb the soul, offer a temporary escape from the suffocating weight of despair. When depression reigns supreme, that escape becomes an irresistible siren song.
And I, standing here in the cold morning air, feel that siren song calling to me, a dangerous temptation whispering promises of oblivion.
If someone offered me that escape, I don’t know if I could resist.
The thought terrifies me, chills me to the bone.
This is the last place I should be, a magnet for self-destruction. I’m drawn to Mom like a moth to a flame, drawn to the comforting illusion of solace, even though I know it’s a dangerous game.
When I’m spiraling, when the darkness threatens to consume me, I always run to Mom.
Low. Lost. Ready to give up.
It’s a ritual, a deeply ingrained pattern, and a desperate attempt to find comfort in the familiar embrace of addiction.
My hand hovers over the door handle, a tremor running through my fingers. If I cross this threshold, if I succumb to the call of easy comfort, I risk losing myself completely. I can’t do this to Amelia, to our unborn child. I can’t allow myself to be weak, to give in to the insidious pull of my mother’s addiction.
I take a step back, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the fear that grips me. I need to break this destructive cycle, to finally break free from the chains of my past. Instead of running to Mom, maybe I need to run to Amelia, my anchor in the storm, my beacon of hope.
But the thought of facing her rejection, of seeing the disappointment in her eyes, is almost unbearable. Mom never pushes me away. She always welcomes me with open arms, no matter how lost I am.
I shove my hands into my hair and let out a deep growl. I’m being stupid, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Logically, I know the only reason Amelia pushed me away was because of my dumbass mistakes. Not because she doesn’t want me. I did this. Not her. But yet my stupid brain is still telling me she abandoned me.
It’s only been a few days since the poker game. I’ve barely given her the time she asked for. But I’m not known for my patience.
The ache in my chest is like a virus, and it’s infecting every ounce of my being. Even my rational thoughts. Without my angel, I don’t have the strength to fight my demons.
As sick as it may be, I need Mom right now. She understands my addiction, my struggles, and my pain like no one else can.
I push the door open, and I’m immediately hit with the pungent smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something else I can’t quite pinpoint. It’s a mix of rotten food, foul body odor, and feces.
It chokes me, and I have to cover my mouth with my shirt just to enter.
“Mom.” I call out. I’m met with silence.
There’s a haze in the air that stings my eyes. The stench is thick and worse than anything I’ve ever experienced before.
That’s saying something considering my past. I’ve exposed myself to some seriously dangerous situations, and on more than one occasion, woke up in a very questionable environment.
I take a step inside and almost trip over a pile of bottles. The clank of glass fills the air as they roll across the floor. When they settle, I half expect to hear Mom yell to be quiet. She hates loud noises. Especially when she’s strung out.
But again, I’m met with silence.
It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the air quality and stop stinging. I rub them with my thumb and fingers to wipe away the tears that formed. When they come into focus, the first thing I see is a pile of cocaine on top of a broken piece of glass with a rusting razor blade beside it. It both disgusts me and feeds my urge for a hit.
My hands, my feet, and every inch of skin on my body itch to feel that high coursing through my veins.
I take a step back and close my eyes. I should run back to my bike and race away from here. But my feet are rooted.
Next to the pile of cocaine is a small bag of weed with just enough for a single blunt. Knowing my mom’s suppliers, that bag is laced with something far more dangerous than cocaine. The stuff they’re selling these days can ruin a man with one drag.
Cracking my neck, I ignore the drugs.
“Mom! Are you here?” I call out again.
I’m met with silence.
Heading deeper into the apartment, I check the kitchen first. Trash and dirty dishes cover every inch of counter space. It looks like every dish she owns is dirty. Typical.
Something that looks like dried up pasta sauce is splattered all over the floor. It’s going to take some serious soaking to get that up.
“Hello?” I call out as I turn down the hallway. I don’t make it but a few steps before I freeze.
The bathroom light is on and she’s on the floor. All I see is her hand and hair splayed out in the hallway.
“Mom!” I run to her and fall to my knees. Her hand is cold as ice with a grayish tint. The smell in the bathroom is far worse than that of the living room. It’s covered in vomit, piss, and shit.
But it’s her lifeless eyes that gut me.
“No, no, no.” I cry out. I press my hand to her neck, looking for any sign of life. There’s no pulse, and she’s not breathing.
I fall back and lean against the wall opposite the bathroom. I should call someone, but I can’t get myself to move. Instead, I stare at her. Studying her face and body. Based on the sunken look of her eyes and dried vomit around her mouth, she’s been like this for a while. Hours? Days? I’ve no way of knowing.
It’s been a few weeks since our monthly visit with her. Chase and I weren’t due for our Sunday cleanup and dinner for another week. How long has it been since someone was here?
“Fuck!” I bang my head against the wall and stare at the ceiling and fight the tears.
No one deserves to go like this, not even someone as lost as my mother. She may have had a revolving door of acquaintances, a parade of faces drawn to her apartment by a shared addiction, but none of them truly cared. They were vultures, circling her demise, each one more desperate than the last for their next fix.
She most likely died alone.
I bang my head a few more times before I push to my feet and run to the living room. I fall back onto the couch and drop my head between my legs.
Tears stream down my face, blurring the already horrifying scene.
This time, the tears aren’t just from the stench, the overpowering smell of decay that clings to every surface. This time, they’re for her, for the woman who, despite her flaws, despite the chaos of her life, was the only one who truly understood the depth of my struggles.
Our relationship was a tumultuous one, a whirlwind of love and dysfunction, but it was mine . And now, it’s gone, leaving behind an emptiness that threatens to consume me.
Lifting my head, my eyes fall on the mound of cocaine on the coffee table. My hand twitches. It would be so easy to pick up the razor blade and line up a hit. Just one. It wouldn’t hurt. If anything, it would make me feel better. Kill this pain constricting my heart.
Without thinking, I reach out but stop just before my fingers touch the razor blade. Don’t do it.
My eyes squeeze shut, a wave of nausea washing over me. My hand trembles, the craving a primal urge, a desperate need that threatens to consume me.
One hit, a single line, that’s all it would take. A momentary escape from the crushing weight of this addiction.
But the voice of reason, weak and wavering, whispers a chilling warning— there’s no such thing as just one hit . The first line leads to another, and another, until you’re trapped, a prisoner, chasing that initial euphoria, that temporary sense of nirvana.
Nothing ever compares to the first high.
But the pursuit of that initial bliss is a dangerous game, a game that too often ends in tragedy. I’ve seen it happen—seen people destroy themselves, chasing and chasing and chasing. Never reaching the finish line.
Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that I was that person.
“Fuck!” I push against the coffee table with both hands and knock it over onto its side. The contents on top go flying across the room. A faint white puff fills the air before it floats back to the ground.
Jumping to my feet, I rush outside and fall on the steps.
My entire body is shaking. It’s painful how badly I wanted that hit. This craving is a part of me. Begging me. Crying out for the drugs that I denied it.
I close my eyes and take deep, shallow breaths. I resisted. Just me. I did it all on my own with no one else there to tell me it was wrong.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I need to get past this moment and save myself.
I’ve relied on the help of others for far too long. Chase and Amelia and my brothers can’t be the only reason I’m alive and healthy.
I need to be that reason.
I need to want it.
To live.
To be happy.
To be the man Amelia and our unborn child deserve and need.
I want to live and be free from this addiction for myself as much as for my family. And today, I’m one step closer to living that reality.
My phone buzzes again, and this time, I pull it out of my pocket. I smile when I see who it’s from.
Angel
I miss you
Can we meet at the cabin tonight? I’m ready to talk.
Thank fuck. The relief that washes over me is palpable. I’ve been waiting for days to hear from her, and the timing couldn’t be better. I’m going to need my angel after this day.
Christian
I miss you too. I’ll be there. Always.
I close the message chain with her and pull up Chase’s number. Before I can fix my life with Amelia, I need to deal with the loss of my mother. And that starts by telling Chase.