Page 67 of Unburdening His Heart

I pour a healthy amount of bourbon and walk over to the couch. The apartment is dark and quiet. I used to find solitude in that. Being on my own, decompressing after a long day’s work in any way I wanted to. Now? Now it seems suffocating. All I want to do is wrap my arms around Charlie, breathe in her all-too-familiar sweet scent, and lose myself in her.

I dig out my phone to call Charlie. I want to hear her voice. My finger hovers over her name and the call button, but I stop myself. She doesn’t need this shit. She doesn’t need to stress or worry over a note that I don’t know the origin or meaning of.

I have my theories, but I don’t know for sure. It has to have something to do with the trial, with Christopher. Did he have one of his lackies leave it? Or is this someone else? Is it about Christopher? The questions continue to run rampant in my mind even with one bourbon after another.

Before I know it, it’s past midnight. As I look out the living room window, the room spins a bit. It’s mostly from exhaustion, but the booze doesn’t help, either. The moon is high and bright in the night sky, illuminating everything below it.

My eyes finally drift closed, sleep taking me.

I jolt awake when the front door is slammed closed. What fucking time is it? I rub the sleep from my eyes as I peer around the still dark room. I sit up on the side of my bed and glance over at the clock on my nightstand. It says 3:06 a.m. in bright red lights. I hear stomping around and glass shattering.

That has me up and moving toward my door. I hesitate and turn back to grab the baseball bat sitting in the corner next to my dresser.

Christopher isn’t home, or at least he wasn’t when I went to bed two hours ago. I wouldn’t think a burglar would make this much noise, but I don’t want to be unprepared if it is one. My bare feet silently pad down the hallway. The bat gently leans against my left shoulder as I stride toward the noise.

I round the corner to the open living room and kitchen, and my shoulders instantly relax at the sight. Not a fucking burglar, just a drunk-ass roommate.

“Christopher?” I call out.

Christopher has been my best friend since as far back as I can remember. He’s also my college roommate.

With his back toward me, he slams kitchen cabinets closed. His movements are jerky and angry.

“Christopher, what the hell, man?”

I lower the bat and reach over to lean it against the island before walking closer to him. He mumbles to himself as he continues to search for something in the kitchen.

He suddenly spins. “Where the fuck is the vodka?”

“What the fuck? What the hell happened to your face?”

His lip is busted. It looks like he’s been in one hell of a fight. There’s an angry purple color forming on his left cheekbone. I also notice scratches on his forearms. His shirt is torn around his collar with red marks just below his collarbone, too.

What the hell happened to him?

He waves me off. “Nothing. Where the hell is the liquor?” His words are slurred. He’s been drinking for a while at least, and the last fucking thing he needs is more alcohol.

“I don’t know, but you probably need to go to bed and get some ice for your face.”

I’m aggravated he woke me up over his bullshit again. This isn’t the first time he’s come home drunk off his ass and still wanting to party.

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do.” There is a bite to his tone that isn’t usually there.

I stop and really look at him. He’s anxious. His hands shake while he opens every cabinet before slamming them closed in his endless search for more liquor. His expression startles me. There’s an angry glint to his eyes that isn’t normally there.

“Who the hell did you get in a fight with? Looks like they kicked your ass.”

I cross my arms over my bare chest, wanting more information from him. I need to be prepared if some jacked-up, pissed off dude shows up here in the middle of the night to finish whatever the hell Christopher most likely started.

He throws me off entirely when a manic laugh bubbles up and erupts from him. The sound sends chills up my spine, and I straighten from where I’m leaning against the countertop.

“Do I need to be worried about some beefed-up jock showing up here?”

His non-answers piss me the fuck off. I want to go back to bed. I don’t want to deal with his mess.

His unhinged laughing finally slows, but my heart rate doesn’t. Something isn’t right. I just can’t put my finger on what it is. This isn’t his normal behavior. Christopher can be an asshole, but he isn’t unhinged. However, that’s exactly what this feels like.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it. I’ve got it handled.”

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