Page 177 of One More Kiss

Chance Encounter

Stephie Walls

Prologue

The ceilingstill had the same number of imperfections as it did yesterday. The walls were still the same dingy yellow, or maybe that was just the dim light from the expensive lamp that sat beside my bed. Whatever it was should have made me want to get up. It should have forced me from my bed—out of this room—and into the world. A need for sunshine, rain, life—anything other than these walls, this space.

I hadn’t showered in days. Food held no appeal. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept instead of passing out. All I’d done was drink and wallow and thank God for alcohol delivery which kept me from having to leave my house and allowed me to continue drinking myself into oblivion. If I had cared more, I would have been concerned about the fact that I stunk. Alcohol and body odor—days of body odor—were not a good combination. My sheets were grimy from the grease on my skin, my hair was so oily it stayed plastered in place, and I couldn’t count the number of empty liquor bottles littering my floor and nightstand.

It was a new low even for me.

I rolled over, taking a smelly blanket with me and pulling it over my head in an attempt to block out the world—the simple fact that I still existed in it. I longed for the days when I was just numb. I could do numb. I’d done numb for years. Life was monotonous then. Consistent. I knew what to expect. I got up at the same time every morning. I ate the same thing for breakfast each day before boring myself to tears at the same job I’d had for years before coming home to an empty house with takeout I’d picked up, then eating alone and going to bed. The days were long and prosperous…the American dream.

The more I worked, the more successful I became. From the outside looking in, I had it all—the cars, the house, the career, the money; however, it had all come at a cost. I just didn’t know if it was a price I had paid because of the choices I’d made or a price I would pay because of how my brain worked—the chemistry of my DNA—not that it mattered. The end result would be the same.

The agony of physical loneliness and isolation was more than I could handle. I simply couldn’t bring myself to care. Not about anything—including the job that had afforded me a life of luxury—except making the pain stop. Nothing mattered anymore. That was my only motivator. Ending the suffering.

And it would end.

Today.

I knew how. I knew where. And I now knew when.

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