A New World

Chapter 4: Reality? - Part 2

Cold sweat poured from my body, soaking my clothes. I sat up, looking wildly around me, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was on the floor of my camper, in the cramped bedroom. I looked all around, breathing hard, trying to piece together what had happened, to separate the nightmare from reality.

I ran a trembling hand through my hair, trying to calm down, trying my hardest not to succumb to the panic that threatened to engulf me. I didn't want to take a Xanax, but I knew I might have to. I hated them, but they were a necessary evil, the only thing that allowed me to maintain some semblance of normality. It was f****d up, ironic even, because it was this very same medication that had cost me my entire world.

Nightmares were all I had since Lucas's death. They were a constant, unrelenting reminder of the unimaginable loss that had shattered my life. No parent should ever know what it's like to have to bury their child. Death, I often thought, was a far better fate than to feel this constant, gnawing pain inside. It was a hole that only grew bigger with time, harder and harder to swallow.

The ember of the cigarette flared in the dimness of the camper, casting a fleeting orange glow on the familiar yet alien landscape of my own backyard. Beyond the scratched window, my house stood silhouetted against the night sky, a monument to everything I had lost, a reminder of the horror that clung to its walls. I took a long drag, the nicotine a feeble attempt to calm the storm raging within me.

Three months. Three months was all it took for my world to implode. A lifetime of happiness, future hopes, irrevocably shattered. Marriage vows, once sacred and unbreakable, now felt like mocking echoes. I’d truly believed love could conquer all, a naive notion brutally disproven.

I climb back up onto the bed. My gaze drifted to the right side of the camper bed, meticulously made but undeniably empty. I reached out, my hand hovering over the cold, barren space where Kelly should have been. The ghost of her warmth lingered in my memory, a fleeting comfort against the crushing weight of reality. Tears pricked at my eyes, a familiar burning sensation that had become my constant companion.

We had it all. Kelly, my beautiful, vibrant wife, who loved me with a fierce devotion that warmed me from the inside out. Lucas, our son, a miniature version of Kelly with her radiant smile and my mischievous eyes, bursting with an energy that filled every room he entered. And Ireland, our unborn daughter, whose impending arrival filled our hearts with anticipation and boundless joy. I yearned to hold her, to protect her from the world, a promise I could no longer keep.

Kelly hasn't been home in, I don't even remember how many days. Part of me resented her for that, for leaving me to drown in my grief alone. But a darker, uglier part of me blamed her for Lucas's death. I knew it was unfair, that grief twisted minds and poisoned hearts, but the thought gnawed at me relentlessly.

The doctors, the nurses, the pharmacist, they had all warned her. 'Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this medication'. Kelly was consumed by guilt, seeking solace, or perhaps escape, at her friend Lily's house. I wouldn't blame her if she left me. My actions towards her have been unspeakable. If someone had treated me that way, I would have run long ago.

My mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions, a chaotic jumble of memories, regrets, and accusations. I was failing at everything. At being a husband, a father, a human being. The anxiety clawed its way up my throat, a suffocating wave threatening to drown me.

I lurched to my feet, tearing through the cramped camper cabinets with frantic desperation. Xanax. I needed Xanax. Anything to quiet the screaming voices in my head. My search quickly expanded to include any bottle, any can, anything containing alcohol. I found a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a forgotten relic from happier times.

I choked down a pill, the small white tablet a pathetic shield against the tsunami of despair. Then, I tipped the whiskey bottle to my lips, the harsh burn a welcome distraction. I glanced at my phone, it's only ten o'clock. Pepper's Bar would still be open. A dark, familiar comfort beckoned.

I threw on the first clothes I could find, not caring if they were clean or not. The thought of showering, of facing myself in the mirror, was unbearable. I stumbled out of the camper, the cold night air offering a brief respite from the stifling atmosphere.

My gaze locked onto the house, the beautiful two-story home that was now a mausoleum. Tears welled up again, blurring the already indistinct outline. A wave of emotions crashed over me, a tornado of grief, rage, and guilt tearing through my soul. I swiped at my cheeks, desperately trying to regain some semblance of control. Then, I climbed into my truck, the familiar scent of leather and motor oil doing little to soothe my frayed nerves.

I cranked the engine, the sudden roar a jarring intrusion on the quiet night. I flicked on the radio, blasting a random song, a vain attempt to drown out the voices inside my head. I slammed the truck into gear and peeled out of the driveway, the tires spitting gravel. I was sure my neighbors would complain. But I didn't care. What were they going to do? Call the cops? I honestly wouldn't have minded.

The road stretched before me, a ribbon of asphalt leading away from the suffocating confines of my grief. The bar was a haven, a place where I could temporarily numb the pain, where I could forget, even if only for a few hours.

The neon sign of Pepper's Bar buzzed a sickly green. Most folks came here to celebrate, to forget, or a potent combination of both. Shotgun weddings weren't uncommon, fueled by cheap beer and bad decisions made under the bar's smoky haze. Although they do have an amazing breakfast menu.

Pepper's wasn't much to look at. A typical dive with dartboards, sticky pool tables, and the siren call of slot machines. But the food was damn good, the kind of hearty fare that could soak up a week's worth of regret. And for those of us who weren't exactly morning people, the 5 AM opening was a godsend, a place to nurse a hangover or start a new one before the world fully woke up.

I wasn't here to celebrate, though. I wasn't here for the breakfast, either. I was here for oblivion, plain and simple. A few too many whiskeys, maybe a fleeting connection with one of the town's "bicycle girls," as we charmingly called them. Anything to numb the ache that had taken root deep in my bones.

The familiar scent of stale beer and frying bacon hit me as I pushed through the heavy door. Amanda was behind the bar, her face etched with a weariness that mirrored my own. She was patiently guiding a fresh-faced girl through the mysteries of pouring a perfect pint. This was the third newbie she'd been training for the new owner. After a year of what I could only imagine was personal hell, she was finally getting out.

Amanda and I, along with the rest of our ragtag group, had grown up in this forgotten corner of the world. We'd shared scraped knees, first crushes, and the youthful arrogance of believing we could escape this place. Amanda had even married my best friend, Sky Matthews. It was a shotgun wedding, born from a night of underage drinking at Pepper's and fueled by the reckless confidence of fake IDs.

But they didn't care about the circumstances. They loved each other with a ferocity that made the rest of us envious. Not long after their wedding their daughter, Lily, was born, a tiny beacon of joy. Then came the twins, two rambunctious boys who completed their picture-perfect family. Sky and Amanda were just ordinary people living an extraordinary love story. Every moment, every shared glance, every whispered secret was precious to them. You could see it in the way they looked at each other, a silent promise of forever.

A year ago, that radiant sunshine was snuffed out.