Chapter 19: The Void (Leo POV)
Chapter 19: The Void (Leo POV)
I stand in the middle of my apartment, my chest tight and my hands shaking. Daniel’s gone. He walked out, said it’s over, and I can’t believe it. I look around, and all I see is him. His face is in every corner, every brushstroke on the walls. The canvases I painted of him lean against the table, staring at me. I grab one, the big one with his sharp jaw and dark eyes, and hold it up. My fingers dig into the edges. “You left me,” I mutter, my voice low and rough. Then I snap. I smash it down hard on the table. The wood cracks loud, splitting right through his face. It feels good for a second, but it’s not enough.
I grab another canvas, smaller this time, and throw it against the wall. It hits with a thud, paint flaking off, and falls to the floor. My breath comes fast, hot in my throat. I can’t stop. I pick up a chair, the old one with a wobbly leg, and swing it at the stack of paintings by the door. They crash down, some tearing, some bouncing across the room. “You bastard!” I yell, louder now, my voice bouncing off the walls. I kick a paint can, and it spins across the floor, black spilling out in a messy puddle. The apartment’s a wreck already, but I don’t care. He’s not here. He’s not coming back. I drop the chair, my arms tired, and stand there, panting, looking at the mess I made.
My phone buzzes on the table, cutting through the quiet. I stumble over, stepping on a broken canvas, and pick it up. It’s Max. His name blinks on the screen, over and over. He’s been calling all day, leaving messages about buyers, about art sales. I don’t want to hear it. I swipe to ignore it, and the screen goes dark. Then it buzzes again, right away. Max again. I groan, loud, and toss the phone back down. It lands with a clatter, sliding into a pile of paint tubes. “Leave me alone,” I say to no one, my voice shaking. I don’t care about the art anymore. It was for us, for me and Daniel, and now it’s nothing. Just trash on the floor.
I turn to the kitchen, my boots crunching on bits of wood and canvas. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the counter, half-empty from last night. I grab it, twist the cap off, and take a long drink. It burns going down, sharp and hot, but I keep going. The taste fills my mouth, drowning out everything else. I lean against the counter, the edge digging into my back, and drink again. My head starts to spin, slow at first, then faster. Good. I want it gone, all of it. Daniel’s voice in my head, saying “It’s over,” over and over. I tip the bottle back, gulping until my throat hurts, and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. The room blurs a little, the mess fading at the edges.
I stumble to the table, bottle still in my hand, and pick up my phone again. My fingers fumble, clumsy from the whiskey, but I unlock it. There’s the text I sent him. “You’re a coward.” It sits there, sent hours ago, no reply. I stare at it, the words glowing bright on the screen. He hasn’t answered. He won’t. I scroll up, reading the old messages, the ones from before. “See you soon,” he said after the exhibition. “You’re in my head,” he wrote after the diner. Lies. All lies. My hand tightens around the phone, and I almost throw it, but I don’t. I drop it instead, letting it fall back onto the table. It hits hard, bouncing once, and I take another drink.
The whiskey’s warm in my stomach now, spreading out, making my legs heavy. I shuffle to the mattress in the corner, stepping over the spilled paint. It’s sagging, sheets twisted from last night, and I collapse onto it, the springs creaking loud under me. The bottle’s still in my hand, and I hold it up, watching the liquid slosh inside. “You left me,” I say again, quieter this time, my voice cracking. I drink more, spilling some down my chin, and let the bottle rest on my chest. My eyes burn, wet and hot, but I don’t wipe them. I just stare at the ceiling, the cracks running across it like veins. He’s gone. I keep saying it, hoping it’ll sink in, but it doesn’t.
A knock comes at the door, soft at first, then harder. I don’t move. I don’t want to. It’s probably Grady, the landlord, coming to yell about the noise. Or maybe it’s Max, pushing his stupid sales. The knock comes again, louder, and a voice calls out. “Leo? It’s me.” It’s Mia. Her voice is small, worried, cutting through the haze in my head. I sit up slow, the bottle tipping, whiskey dripping onto the mattress. “Go away,” I mutter, but she knocks again. “Leo, please. I’m worried about you.” Worried. Like that means anything now. I stand, swaying a little, and stumble to the door. My hand fumbles with the knob, and I yank it open.
She’s there, her hair messy, eyes big and red like she’s been crying. She’s holding a bag, probably food again, trying to fix me. “Leo,” she says, stepping closer. “You look awful. What’s going on?” I glare at her, my chest tight. “Nothing’s going on,” I say, my voice loud and rough. “Get out.” She blinks, surprised, and reaches for my arm. “I just want to help,” she says, soft, like that’ll change anything. “Daniel’s gone, and—” I cut her off, yelling now. “I said get out! Leave me alone!” My voice cracks, echoing in the hall, and she steps back, her face pale. “Leo…” she starts, but I slam the door hard, the bang rattling the frame. I lean against it, breathing fast, listening as her footsteps fade down the stairs.
I slide down the door, hitting the floor with a thud. The bottle’s still in my hand, and I take another drink, the last of it. It’s empty now, and I let it roll away, clinking against a broken canvas. My head drops back against the wood, and I close my eyes. The room spins, slow and sick, but I don’t care. Then a loud bang comes from the wall, sharp and angry. “Keep it down!” a voice yells, muffled through the brick. It’s the neighbor, the old guy next door who’s always mad. I laugh, short and bitter, and it turns into a cough. “Sorry,” I mutter, not loud enough for him to hear. I pull my knees up, resting my arms on them, and sit there, the whiskey heavy in my veins. The banging stops, and it’s quiet again, just me and the dark.