Three Months Later

I was in the last place I wanted to be, but my somewhat healthier coping mechanisms weren't quite doing what they were supposed to, so a man's got to do what a man's got to do.

I signalled for the bartender to get me a repeat of my drink. I didn't usually go for the hard stuff when I was out in public, but then that would defeat the whole purpose of coming out this far where no one seemed to mind or care that I was steadily losing all sense of coherence and inhibition. Which was perfect, really.

The man in the beaten-down wife beater filled the lowball, and I wasted no time in emptying it once more. He filled it again, and this time I felt the bile rise in my throat. I swallowed it down and thunked my head on the dirty, crusty bartop. Returning to that pig sty I called home was turning out to be a no-go. Not in my current state, at least. I checked my phone. Still no all-clear.

Then one more drink it is.

I forced myself to take a sip and swallow down the burn. When I slammed the tumbler, pieces of torn paper fluttered, some falling to the floor and getting lost underneath the soles of uncaring men. I didn't bother to scramble after them. There wasn't any reason to.

Nothing I did had a reason anymore.

Not since Beck had left me crying, begging and hurting on the floor, pleading for him to not break me. Pleading for mercy.

I'd left voicemails that went unheard, sent texts that went unanswered, and at my lowest of lows, I even showed up at the rink to ask for him. He never came. His teammates said he had stopped attending practice.

I had stayed in the apartment we had once called our own for weeks. Weeks of crying my heart out in front of windows in his room, watching the raindrops race down the glass. I prayed that he would walk through the front door, take me in his arms, apologise for ever leaving, and all would be alright again. Prayed that wherever he was, he was okay and that he wasn't in pain even though my chest collapsed in on itself at the very thought of him. When I looked in the mirror, I saw nineteen-year-old Neil again. Broken, aimless, pathetic.

Sleeping on our bed again was out of the question, it smelled too much of him. His love, his kindness, his sincerity. The spare room had become my new sanctuary, but every time I found myself breathless and cold at night, I trudged to that sanctity and curled up into a ball on the floor with his T-shirt in my arms, soaking my tears.

He hadn't even come to collect his things. All his stuff was still there. His clothes, his hockey gear, his textbooks, even that framed picture of his mom and him. It felt like he was just gone for a few weeks, and he'd return soon. Return to the life we had carved for ourselves.

To distract myself, I took up another job. The cafe opposite H&P finally had new personnel who did not remember my very public humiliation and didn't have any problems hiring me as one of the waitstaff. I had finished my penultimate semester by barely passing, and the University probably took pity on me and let me hold on to my scholarship. What were they going to do? Kick me out in my final semester and ruin their graduation rate?

Seeing my condition, it seemed likely that their graduation rate was going to take a hit anyway. Whatever. Their loss that they didn't jump on the sinking ship that was my life.

Sometimes, when the ache overtook every facet of my being, I turned to booze to numb some of the ever-present gnawing in my chest. It helped in replacing his warmth that was slowly leaving me. Christmas and New Year I spent utterly wasted out of my mind and in a pool of my own vomit. Same for the week leading up to it. And the week after it.

All too soon, the sadness I was so acutely harbouring turned into a twisted, ugly wraith called hate. To my surprise, hating Beck became a form of sustenance.

For a little while, at least.

After week three, he'd changed his number. That was when the scathing emails began. Most were filled with anger, thousands of words, each spelling out how I wished he were burning in hell, literal keyboard rage spews that made no sense. But there were those days in between when the sun decided to come out of its hiding and give me energy. Those days I just sent him a simple I love you.

Then there were the ones that I had filled with my overflowing need for him. I would type those with blurry eyes as tears dripped down my cheeks and my lungs drowned in agony. Those were the days when it hurt to breathe.

I'd remind him of all our best memories. The times when we'd spend hours at night talking about our dreams, when we'd go skating where I purposefully fell onto my ass each time, just so he would tuck me in by his side, when we'd cook together in the kitchen, belting out Bon Jovi in the most off-key beat known to mankind.

Or that time when Beck had shown a mild interest in cricket, and I didn't miss that opportunity to drag him to the nets. I had borrowed the gear from a player I knew from class and had decked him up in it. Helmet, gloves, pads, the whole deal. I had shown him the stance, and he had butchered it magnificently. I laughed and told him to just wing it at the end.

The very first ball I had bowled—after three years of giving up on the sport that had once made my life—was a duck out. It was a slow spinner, that really had no effort from my side, but Beck panicked and started running without even attempting a hit. I, in response, ran towards his stumps to collect the ball, and fix the fallen bails. My darling boyfriend thought we were going for runs—bless his half-knowledge cricket brain—began hooting and went for another run, his hands up in the air, bat dangling.

I couldn't stop laughing that day. My heart burst at the seams, filled with so much joy and love that I didn't know where to put it. A few more trial balls had Beck familiarise himself with the bat, and though he didn't quite get a hit, he did learn how to swing a bat. Finally, as my arm grew tired, he made contact. He hit it like a tennis forehand, and the ball went flying above me. It wasn't conventional, but hey, that had the opportunity to turn into a four.

I debated on whether or not to run after it, but Beck made that decision for me as he came bumbling at me, his arms outstretched, engulfing me in the warmest bear hug ever. He grinned as I took off his helmet, his auburn hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and nape.

He mushed his cheek to mine, enjoying the way I pretended to struggle to get away from all his sweatiness.

"I like seeing you like this," he'd said, panting and breathless.

"Like what?"

"Carefree and happy. I like it. It suits you."

"You suit me." Then I dragged him to a corner and showed him just how well he suited me.

I reminded him of all that in my email, even attaching the selfie I had taken of me with him in the background in full cricket gear, begging him to meet me one more time.

I never pressed send, though. Just clicked the trash icon and sent it to purgatory to rot with the hundred other unsent memories.

It was like the universe had listened to my pleas. Only a part of it. The very next day, over a month after I'd last seen him, Beck entered through the automatic sliding doors. For a second there, I was transported to those simpler times when he'd walk in just like that, hands in his jacket pockets, hood all the way up, his sneakers' shoelaces loosened and untied. He'd come up to the reception, sneak in a corny joke, he'd laugh, I'd stare, and then we'd continue with our session for the evening.

But this wasn't the same. He was not here for a therapy session. There was no joke, there were no smiles. Instead, he had the audacity to look surprised when he saw me stand behind the desk.

"Neil," he whispered.

It was like I had finally satiated my hunger. I didn't know relief would be this soothing as it flowed through my veins. I wanted to jump over the desk and into his arms. I wanted to burrow myself in his soul and stay there for the rest of my fucking life because I still hadn't learnt to live without Beck, and I was sure I'd never wanted to either.

But then what he said next were like pinpricks of anguish on my already weakened heart. "I didn't know you worked this shift," he'd said, eyes darting away. "I just wanted to thank Nazmi for all she's done. If I'd known..."

For the second time in my life, Beck managed to knock out all the air from my lungs with just his words. I didn't know how I managed it, but I choked out that she was present in her office, and the moment he left, I ran to the staff room, not bothering that the front desk was unmanned. He had deliberately wanted to come at a time when I wouldn't be present. Did the sight of me terrify him that much?

I had yanked my bag from the hook, snatching my sketchpad from inside. The portrait I'd made of Beck, the very first one ever, the one I always carried with me wherever I went. I'd taken one long look at it, and every ugly emotion in me reared its head. I swallowed my screams and ripped it to tiny shreds, ripping apart all the love I'd ever held for him.

Once I'd calmed down and saw the mess I'd made on the floor, I fell to my knees, scrambling to get back all the pieces. This was what got me into sketching again. My muse. My love. My heart. This fucking portrait, with its uneven shades and shaky lines, guided my path back to a version of my old self. I couldn't lose it. Not this too.

"No, no, no," I cried. "Beck, what did you make me do?"

Frantic, I crawled all over the small space, collecting the tiny pieces, and after convincing myself I had them all, I began to fit them together. With trembling hands and blurry eyes, I tried putting it back the way it was. But the shreds were too small, and though I tried finding them all, I was still missing a few and my hands wouldn't stay still and I couldn't see and Beck left me and I was drowning. I could never make it whole again. It was far from perfect, but it was mine, something I had made with my own hands, and now it was broken.

I bundled whatever I could find and brought it close to my heart. I curled into a ball right there on the cold tiles and let the rawness of my pain consume me all over again. Only when Mandy yelled for me to get my pathetic ass out there, did I wipe my tears, put on a brave face and stuff all the pieces into my pocket, ready to get another day over with.

I had moved out that very night. I didn't care where I'd end up, just that I wanted nothing to do with him. Beck had taken care of the rent till graduation. A token to reduce his guilt, probably. A piece of information I'd gotten only when I told the landlord that I'd be moving out and had no intention of extending the lease for another six months. Especially since I'd be staying alone and by no means would allow another soul to stay there with me.

I had crashed on Deep and Krishna's couch for a week, dodging all their questions about what happened to Beck and me, and the moment I found another place, I moved. The new apartment had four bedrooms, two bathrooms and thanks to me, now had five members. The other guys were all Indians who did well to leave me to my business. I slept on the pull-out couch and lived out of my suitcase, trying my best to make my lousy ass as scarce as possible to not get in their way. December, I got the place all to myself, which made it very convenient to feel absolutely sorry for myself.

A chillness on my cheek shook me out of my misery. I jerked upright to find the cause. The bartender held out a bottle of cold water, precipitation covering every inch of the plastic.

"I can't have you passing out on my floor, so either drink up or get out."

Seeing as getting out wasn't really an option since I didn't have a destination to get out to, I drained the bottle. Then immediately regretted it when everything in my stomach threatened to rise up.

The bartender side eyed me, wiping down the counter, as I rubbed my chest, willing for things to go in the right direction for once. As he wiped, he brushed all my torn pieces into the waiting trash can in his other hand, and I didn't have it in me to stop him. Once the last shred had disappeared, a thick chunk of my heart had too.

I gripped the tumbler with both hands, fingertips pressing into the smooth glass so hard, I was sure it would break. The back of my eyes stung and the bluriness hit me hard, making me dizzy.

The very reason I had come here was turning to be futile. One of my roommates needed the place to himself. Wanted to have his girlfriend over or something, and since I was the only returning home that night, I didn't mind giving him a couple more hours of Neil-free atmosphere.

That, and I wanted to shut myself off to feeling. I wanted to become immune to the pain and sadness and pining.

So, it made sense to visit a run down gay bar half way across town, strategically ordering the cheapest—but strong—stuff to lose my inhibitions but not my pocket.

But seeing how I was practically in tears while a bar fight was in full swing in the opposite corner was enough proof that booze alone would not be the answer any longer.

The tumbler I was holding on to like a lifeline was ripped out of my hands and the bartender replaced it with a fancier looking one. Either the cow-piss I'd been drinking had magically turned to expensive elixir, or this idiot thought I was drunk enough to not know the difference.

"I didn't—"

He just pointed to a corner. Following his finger, I found a man sitting at the extreme edge of the bar. He raised his tumbler in my direction.

I faced the bartender again, in one swig emptied the lowball, cringing at how the pricy shit hit, and told him to get another round. This time a double—add it to the man's tab.

When I was successfully past the point of regretting all my mistakes, I swayed and stumbled, bumping into patrons and waiters alike as I made my way to him.

He had the kind of sandy brown hair that could be mistaken for blonde and too eager eyes that spelt nervous. A suit jacket lay bunched up beside his drink. His pristine white shirt was open at the collar, and his cuffs were undone, showcasing a pretty impressive shiny watch. I didn't miss the tender skin that ringed around his finger where his wedding band should be. Perfect.

I tipped my head, gesturing for him to follow me. He shot a nervous glance to the side as if an angry spouse would pop up to get him.

"Five seconds or the offer's done," I snapped.

He hopped off the stool, and placed a hand on my hip as I wrestled past the gyrating bodies to get to the restroom.

Once we reached a quieter zone, he leaned in close and whispered, "I don't normally do this stuff, but life—"

"Keep your problems to yourself." Being too curious was what got me in this place. I was not going to make the same mistake twice. "It's better that way and if you want to fuck, then follow me."

I turned on my heel and staggered for the restroom. It had seen better days, and going by the drying streaks on the wall, we weren't the only ones using it for its unintended purpose.

Soon-to-be-cheater entered just as I was beginning to think I'd scared him away.

"Condom?" I asked.

He nodded, and I kicked open a stall door, ushering the both of us in.

Warning signs blared in red all around me, but the alcohol in my system worked in tuning them out. I wanted Beck gone. From my head. From my heart. From my body. I wanted all the spaces in my body reserved for him scrubbed. Arya was right, sometimes you just had to fuck it out of your system, and then you could start a new day without hating yourself as much.

I knew if I continued with this, there would be no going back. But I didn't want to go back. Whatever string that had held me together, I wanted it snapped. Completely. Beyond repair. I wanted there to be no scope of ever recovering. Because the last time I thought I could get back up, I didn't know I would be pushed further into the ground. This time, I knew better.

I wanted to be box myself so nothing or no one could ever hurt me again.

"Don't be gentle," I said, my trembling fingers working at my belt. "Don't ask if I'm alright, or if I like it. Just take what you want." I swallowed, turning around and gripping the top of the stall. "Pretend like I'm a sex doll open for your use."

"Okay," he said plainly, all traces of his nervousness and shyness lost to the wind. I heard the tear of the wrapper, and true to his words, he did what I needed him to do.

I tightened my hold on the rattling frame and vanquished that feeling of shame and guilt, festering inside of me, obliterating the glimmer of hope that shone bright in my core.

His hands pawed at my hips, and I bit into my forearm to stifle my cries as his cock rocketed in and out of me, lacking the love and ownership I had grown so used to.

Mr Cheater was not a quiet one by any means. He babbled about how good I felt, how tight I was, how hard he was going to come and more that fell to deaf ears.

My chest drew into itself and a tsunami of emotions threatened to take me under as I lost the last thing that tethered me to the man I love.

I didn't know when he left. I was alone in the stall, on the floor, my face hidden in my knees. I couldn't feel the tears on my cheek as numbness finally took over me, ridding me of the pain.

This was it. This was how I'd cope.

This man was just the first of many to help me get through the blinding anguish I promised myself I would never allow to fester.

Everything was so wrong, but wrong was all I needed now.