I tore the linens from the bed and shoved them into a black garbage bag, then grabbed one of the empty boxes I’d left out in the hall and began to clear out his desk. This stuff? I’d just roll tape across the seam of the box. Seal it up. Save it. Knew one day Zee would want to go rummaging through when his broken heart was ready to take that step.
The drawers were filled with a ton of old cassette tapes and CDs, his own words scrawled across them, music we had made. All the scratches and scribbles of paper when we’d jammed, the guy always quick to jot stuff down when we were capturing a moment in a song.
My chest tightened with unspent sorrow.
God. It fucking hurt.
My eyes blurred as I filled one box then another, forcing myself to just forge through.
When I cleared out his desk, I moved on to his walk-in closet, flipped on the light switch. Light flickered before it came to life, and I blinked to adjust to the harshness. It was just a long, narrow path, clothes hung up on either side, old, tattered shoes shoved in the cubbies, and clutter clogging the shelves.
A soft chuckle of affection slipped into the room. Guy couldn’t get rid of anything.
I shoved sections of shirts together, pressing them between my hands to lift the hangers free, and threw them out into the middle of the bedroom floor. I continued on till one side was clear, then the other, until there was a fucking mountain of clothes in the middle of the bedroom floor.
Some hipster thrift shop was going to have a field day.
I started pulling out boxes, the anguish oppressive as I struggled to make it through what felt like ridding the last of Mark’s presence from our lives.
Knew that’s why I’d stalled for so long.
Wanted one last thing to hang onto, even when I hadn’t had the strength to step through the door.
Getting down on my knees, I pulled out a few storage boxes Mark had shoved under the shelves at the far back corner. I lifted a lid and peeked inside.
Pictures.
I sat back and pulled out a stack. Nostalgia, darts of regret and pain, and a forever kind of connection I knew could never be severed hit me. Image after image of us as teenagers, hanging out in Ash’s garage, back in the days when we were gonna take the world by the balls and there was nothing that could have stopped us from making it big.
Back before we’d let the lifestyle wear us thin and the endless parties take us down all kinds of roads we never should have gone.
My gut clenched at some of the faces, some of the guys we’d called friends who were nothing less than dealers feeding the blood-thirsty frenzy. The need to feel something that in the end just didn’t exist.
Only thing there was emptiness.
Pissed me off more because some of these guys were directly tied to Jennings.
I cringed when I saw a picture of Donny. One of Jennings’s right-hand guys. Blitzed-out blue eyes stared back, face tweaked with that seedy fucking grin.
Seemed the second Mark started hanging out with that creep, he’d been sucked into a downward spiral he couldn’t stop. Tripped right into the cesspool that would be his demise. He’d gone and gotten in deep. Started hiding shit. Even from me. At that time, Donny had always been lurking, hanging out at every show, acting like it was his place and all part of the gig. I knew better. He’d been plying Mark with his supply.
I dug a little deeper in the box, moving more photos out of the way. I had the sudden urge to understand Mark better in that period of time. Wishing I’d paid closer attention. Done more before it’d been too late.
A thick leather-bound journal was tucked to the side. I pulled it out, feeling like a sick fuck for invading his privacy. But hell, he’d been my best friend. And I missed him. Missed him so fuckin’ bad it physically hurt, my chest feeling like it just might cave with the pressure in my heart, and I wanted to hang on to a little more.