Chapter 23: The Edge (Leo POV)
Chapter 23: The Edge (Leo POV)
I sit on the mattress, my back against the wall, staring at nothing. My face itches, rough with stubble I haven’t shaved in days. Maybe weeks. I don’t know anymore. Time’s blurry, all the hours running together. The apartment’s quiet, too quiet, and I feel like a ghost haunting it. My hands rest on my knees, empty, no paint on them. I haven’t touched a brush since he left. The canvases are still broken, scattered on the floor where I smashed them. Paint cans sit in the corner, unopened, gathering dust. I don’t care. I can’t. Daniel’s gone, and it’s like he took everything with him.
The rent’s paid, barely, from those last sales Max pushed through. But Grady, the landlord, keeps knocking, leaving notes under the door. “Quiet down,” one says. “Pay on time,” says another. I don’t open them anymore. They pile up by the door, yellow and crumpled, ignored. I don’t leave the apartment much either. No point. The world outside feels fake, like it’s moving on without me. My beard’s thick now, messy, and my hair hangs in my face, greasy and tangled. I catch my reflection sometimes, in the cracked mirror by the sink. I don’t recognize myself. Hollow eyes, dark circles, a stranger looking back.
A loud bang hits the door, hard and fast, shaking the frame. I don’t move. Probably Grady again, mad about something. Then I hear a voice, rough and familiar. “Leo! Open up!” It’s Jake. My brother. My stomach drops, and I pull my knees up, resting my head on them. He bangs again, louder. “I know you’re in there! Let me in!” I don’t want to see him. Not like this. But the door creaks, then flies open, the lock giving way. He’s here, standing in the doorway, his big frame filling it. His eyes go wide, taking in the mess. The broken canvases, the spilled paint, the trash on the floor. Then he looks at me, and his face changes, softens, like he’s scared. “Jesus, Leo,” he says, stepping inside. “What happened to you?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the floor, my hands clenched tight. He drops his bag by the door, a duffel from New York, and walks over, his boots loud on the wood. “Max called me,” he says, crouching in front of me. “Said you’re falling apart. I didn’t believe it, but look at this.” He waves a hand at the room, then at me. “Look at you.” His voice is sharp, worried, cutting through the fog in my head. I shrug, slow and heavy. “I’m fine,” I mutter, my voice raspy from not talking. He snorts, standing up. “You’re not fine. You look like hell. When’s the last time you ate?” I don’t know. I don’t say that. I just shrug again, and he shakes his head, mad now.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my arm. “We’re getting food. You’re not sitting here like this.” He pulls, hard, and I stumble up, my legs weak under me. “No,” I say, yanking my arm back. “I don’t want to.” He grabs me again, stronger this time, his grip tight. “I don’t care what you want,” he snaps. “You’re coming with me.” He drags me toward the door, my feet dragging on the floor. I twist, shoving him off, my hands hitting his chest. “Get off me!” I yell, loud and rough. He stumbles back, surprised, then steps closer, his face hard. “You’re killing yourself here, Leo,” he says. “Over him? That guy? He’s not worth it.”
That hits me, sharp and deep. Daniel. Not worth it. My chest burns, and I shove Jake again, harder. “Shut up,” I say, my voice shaking. “You don’t know anything.” He grabs my shoulders, holding me still. “I know you’re a wreck,” he says, low and fierce. “I’m not watching you fall apart. You’re coming to New York with me. Tomorrow.” I shake my head, fast, pulling away. “No,” I say. “I’m not leaving.” He steps closer, not letting up. “You are. This place is poison. Look at you!” His voice rises, filling the room, and I back up, my legs hitting the mattress. “Leave me alone,” I mutter, turning away. He grabs my arm again, pulling me back. “I’m not leaving you like this,” he says. “You’re my brother.”
I twist free, my breath fast, and stumble to the bathroom. “Stop it,” I yell, slamming the door behind me. The lock clicks, loud in the quiet, and I lean against it, my hands shaking. He bangs on the other side, hard. “Leo! Open the door!” he shouts, his voice muffled but angry. I don’t answer. I slide down, sitting on the cold tile, my back to the wood. My head’s spinning, full of Daniel, full of Jake’s words. I can’t do this. I can’t keep going. My eyes land on the sink, the razor sitting there, old and dull. I stand, slow, and grab it, my fingers tight around the handle.
The metal’s cold, heavy in my hand. I lift my sleeve, my arm pale and thin, and press the blade to my skin. Not deep, just enough. A shallow cut, red blooming slow under it. It stings, sharp and real, and I do it again, a little lower. My breath shakes, and I watch the lines form, small and thin. Jake pounds on the door, harder now. “Leo! What are you doing? Open up!” His voice is loud, panicked, rattling the frame. I don’t move. I cut again, slow, the pain cutting through the fog. Blood drips, just a little, onto the tile. He keeps banging, yelling my name, but I stay there, the razor in my hand, my eyes on the red.