When I Was Theirs

52. Jared

52

Jared

I bolt upright.

Knives stab into my skull, my mouth bone dry as I stare around the apartment.

All the lights are still on, and I blink.

The fuck happened last night?

My body feels wired, as though I’m gearing up to run a marathon instead of waking up from an alcohol-induced semi coma. On edge.

My foot nudges against something solid, and I watch hazily as the bottle rolls across the floor, joining the many, many other bottles littered around Ben’s apartment. Every corner, every side.

That, and a few books on top of the sideboard are my only contribution.

His bed is still in the same place. Everything is still in the same place. Nothing has moved on since the night he died. Including me.

Scrubbing my hands down my face, I stumble up from my makeshift pallet on the floor and into the bathroom. I start throwing water over my face before I give up and just shove my whole head under, as far as I can get it.

Taking a few gulps, I scrub my teeth twice before I even risk glancing in the mirror.

My eyes are more red than white. I haven’t shaved in days, the stubble I normally keep close to my skin edging into beard territory.

Something flickers in the eyes of my reflection, and I frown as a flash of memory tugs at me.

Emilia… she was there.

The bar.

Arron Matthews.

It all comes back in a rush, coinciding with the nausea that surges up my throat as I lean over the toilet and lose what little is left in my stomach.

I fucked up. So fucking badly.

I let her abusive asshole of an ex-husband get into my head, and the alcohol paved the rest of the way.

You promised you would believe me.

She wouldn’t even let me walk her home. Not that I blame her in the slightest.

Twisting, I heave again, retching several times before starting to search for my phone. It’s out of battery, tucked away under the corner of my bed.

Unease has me pacing as I wait for it to charge. To light up, so I can call Em and apologise.

So I can tell her… I don’t know.

I’m not coping well.

I’m drinking too much.

I don’t know what to do without Ben.

I feel so fucking aimless that at least drinking gives me something to do. Helps to fill the hours, staring at the walls of this apartment where he died.

She doesn’t answer my call on the first try. The second. The third.

“Pick up,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair. “Pick up, Em.”

I owe her honesty. Especially when she gave me her truth, and I repaid it by making her relive some of the worst memories of her life.

Honesty, and an apology.

The one good thing left in my life, and I managed to hurt her too. I stare around at the apartment at the evidence of my own issues.

This isn’t normal.

I can admit that much. It feels easier in the daylight. Harder to hide from.

I need to talk to Em. Tell her… tell her about this. All of it. And then I need to make it better. Make me better.

Because if I can’t, it’s going to consume me.

The phone cuts out again, a robotic voicemail greeting kicking in.

“Em.” I run a hand over my face. “Look, I know you probably don’t want to speak to me. But I need to speak to you. And then I’ll go. I’m coming over, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

Please answer the door.

***

My feet pick up speed as I walk. My head jerks back and forth as I dive across the road, praying she’ll talk to me and waving a hand apologetically to the truck that slows.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck as her street comes into view. Slowing, I try to work out what I’m seeing.

Blue and red. The color sweeps over me, and I shield my eyes.

Two police vehicles. And an ambulance.

No—

“ EMMY !”

I scream her name as I sprint up the street. A crowd is gathered behind the yellow line of tape, faces turning to me. Shoving past them, I jump over the line and run for the door. The broken keypad hangs off the wall.

An officer turns in the doorway, his face changing. “Stop—,”

I push past him too, taking the stairs three at a time as he tries to keep up behind me, shouting. Several people turn to look as I race past them, all of them staring as my heart beats violently in my chest.

This can’t be happening.

I just saw her.

But I didn’t walk her home.

I shout for her again, desperate. “ Emmy !”

Feet pound up the stairs behind me as I reach the last set of stairs. And the body lying at the bottom. Two EMTs look up from the bag they’re zipping up, and my heart stops completely.

Please not her – not her—

And then I catch a glimpse of red. A tuft of hair. Staggering, I throw my hand out to balance against the railing. “ Where is she ?”

The older woman gets to her feet. “You shouldn’t be up here. Who let you in?”

I stare at her. “Where’s Emilia Marsters? Is she hurt?”

“Who?” She looks down at the bag. “Are you able to identify him?”

The officer catches up with me, panting. “You. What the hell are you doing?”

“She lives here.” My words stumble over themselves. “In that apartment. He’s Arron Matthews, and he – he’s hurt her. Before. He’s her husband.”

I point, and they exchange glances. The officer looks up. “We knocked on all the doors. No answer from that one.”

I take off again, jumping up the last set of stairs and hammering on her door. “Em? Emmy!”

No answer.

I glance down at the floor as I back up. Time slows to a crawl. Reaching down, I brush my fingers against the dark stains, ignoring the officer talking next to me.

My fingers come away smeared with scarlet.

Silence.

My eyes jerk to the door.

And then my boot smashes into it, the wooden frame jolting. The officer grabs my arm. “You can’t just kick a door down!”

I thrust my fingers in his face before I turn back, showing him the blood. “You see this? Get the fuck out of my way before I add yours.”

I’m coming.

Another kick. A crack in her door.

Hold on for me, Em. I’m coming.

The door flies open, pieces of wood spraying as I push my way through it. My foot slips in the liquid pooling on her wooden floor, soaking into the edges of the rug. Across from me, her shelves are tipped, broken glass and porcelain scattered in every direction.

She’s so close to the door. Her phone is just out of reach.

Emilia.

She looks so small. My knees drop into the blood as I cradle her face. The blood on my fingers soaks into her skin. “Emmy?”

My voice breaks. Her face . Reddish-purple skin around her swollen eyes, her nose, her mouth, breaking up the bruising that’s starting to spread across her skin. The blood staining her lips is dry. “Get those EMTs up here!”

Don’t leave me.

“Fight, Em.” I’m crying, sobbing like a fucking baby. “You can’t give up.”

Not like this.

Not after everything.

Ben, please. Help her.

If you can hear me.

They pull me away, and I scramble back to give them space. Back pressed against the wall, I watch their faces turn expressionless, grim looks exchanged before they start working on her.

“I love you.” My own lungs aren’t working properly, as if the blue tinge to her lips is catching. “I love you, Emmy Marsters.”

It can’t end like this.

“Manual strangulation. Transporting now.” They strap her down into a board, and she doesn’t move. Doesn’t open her eyes.

Because what the fuck was all of this for, if she doesn’t live?

What the hell was any of this for?