Stumbling through the hallway, tripping over old boxes and lumps of discarded marble, I eventually reached the entrance of my studio, but not before stumping my foot on a large box just beside the doorway.
Frowning in confusion at what it was, I staggered to the workstation beside my work-in-progress, dumped my liquor on the wooden top, pulled out half of my coke, leaving the other bag for later. I threw it down beside the glass bottles of mind numbing perfection.
Flicking on a lamp on the workstation, I walked back to the hallway, picked up the strange box and brought it into the studio. Dropping the box next to my current sculpture, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and slumped down to the floor. Taking four long gulps of Beam, I placed the bottle beside me and ripped the box open.
The contents immediately came into view and chased the breath from my lungs. The titles and text boards for my show.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled through my nose and used my hands to push myself to my feet.
Silent… it was all too fucking silent.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my phone, attempting to open my music, when all I could see were a shit ton of missed calls and text messages from Austin…
AUSTIN: Where are you, Axe? You still here at the stadium?
AUSTIN: Been looking for you all over. Where are you? Want to take you out for dinner.
AUSTIN: Back home now. I’m worried. Why did you take off without telling me? Did something happen?
Feeling a rush of guilt pass through my chest, I pushed it from my mind the minute I pictured that blond Redskins punk kissing Aliyana on the lips, her fucking bright smile and huge brown eyes looking up at him afterward, and her hand pressing on his chest. Then…
You were the only guy that I’ve ever felt that fucking bolt of lightning in my heart with, and you turn out to be… him! You!
Feeling like I’d taken a hit to my stomach at the replay of her words, her words that were right on the fucking money, I plugged in my speakers and let the heavy bass beats of Linkin Park pound through the studio.
Looking at the box sitting on the floor, I made my way forward, grabbing the Patron as I did so. Dropping my ass to the tiled floor, the room beginning to spin, I ripped off the top and took a long drink like it was water and not real good fucking Tequila.
Lining up the Patron next to the whiskey, I reached into the box, pulling out the title reading ‘Exsanguination’. My stomach muscles involuntary tightened seeing the title of one of my pieces there in black and white.
It somehow made all this shit real.
Placing the title plaque by my feet, I then picked up a larger board. The lettering was the same non-descript font, the color scheme black against white. But there was a lot more writing, and I began to read…
“The sculptor’s inspiration for his dark and highly emotional ‘Exsanguination’ piece is one born of man’s intense inner conflict with guilt. The subject’s fetal position is due to his inability to face his grief, his inner turmoil bringing him physically to his knees. Each carefully black painted dagger plunged into the cracked Carrara marble portrays the heavy burden of sin on a soul, the reparation of man’s deliberate violation of morality. The punishing daggers are irremovable and a permanent reminder to the subject that his crimes can never be forgotten or redeemed. Nor can he ever be saved. He bleeds his guilt in an eternal ever-flowing state of desolation.”
As I finished reading the last word, I dropped the board to the floor and slumped back against my newest sculpture, feeling like my chest had been ripped open, exposed for everyone to look inside.
How the fuck did she know to write the board that way? How to write what I was feeling this way? How the fuck did she know how to read my work and me perfectly? Like a goddamn fucking book.
Feeling like my lungs were being squeezed in a fist that I couldn’t friggin’ fight off, I pulled out my smokes and lit one up. Taking alternate long hits of my Marlboro and huge swigs of my whiskey, I looked up and stared at the young marble boy holding a gun, crying red painted bullets and a fucking uncontrollable rage swept through me.
With every drag of my smoke and every swallow of whiskey, I was pushed farther and farther to the edge. Images of Levi’s rejection tortured my mind. Aliyana’s damn disgusted face when she realized it was me, Axel Carillo, not her precious Elpidio, Molly’s hand shaking in pure fucking fear as she took mine in hers. And that cunt, Rome Prince’s stupid fucking scowl as he glared at me with nothing but hatred, acting like he was Austin’s blood, not me.
Fuck them.
FUCK THEM ALL!
Standing, I began to pace back and forth on the studio floor, gripping the glass neck of the whiskey bottle tighter in my hand, the ash from my nearly-done Marlboro falling on my chest.
My heart beat faster and faster keeping rhythm with the heavy metal of Pantera’s “Walk” now vibrating off the walls.