The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Twenty Three

What the fuck does he have to be angry about? Who the fuck is he telling to move on? I want to move on. I also want to punch him. I feel my fists curl and the blood pound hotly in my ears as I glare back at him.

To stop me doing something or saying something I regret, I turn and stomp into the bathroom. Acutely aware that stomping anywhere undoubtedly makes me look even more fucking childish.

I grip the sink hard and stare into the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and ringed in red, and stand out against the grey / white pallor of my skin. I look like shit. I could be doing with a holiday somewhere with sun. At least my face was growing back though, retreating gradually back into hiding where it belonged. I run my hand over the trim I'd given it a few days ago which was being slowly forgotten.

I grab my shower bag and go back into the now empty bedroom and sling it into the case. With a final glance round the bedroom and inside the bedside drawers, I close the case and carry it out into the loft. Pat is on his laptop on the dining table as I walk into the kitchen to pour myself another coffee from the pot. He only looks up when I slide the bottle of Jameson towards me and top up my coffee cup with it. As I take a seat across from him he lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry, man," he says softly.

I try a smile. "Not you too."

"I'm just worried about you. I don't want you back where you were three years ago. Or where you were when I met you."

I scrub a hand over my face. "Stop fucking worrying about me, Patrick. I'm an adult." I give him a pointed look.

"Well, you've a funny way of demonstrating that at times, Aidan."

"That right?" I roll my eyes and take another generous gulp. Coffee is definitely my favourite mixer.

He sighs again and reaches forward to grab the bottle, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip and then another before sitting it back on the table.

"Look, I get what being with her must have felt like, I do. You got to live the dream. This impossible unrequited love thing you had for so long finally came good. I was over the fucking moon for you mate honestly, but you need to let it go now. All of it. It's done." His voice is calm and even but there's concern peppered over every word. As I stare back at him and digest his words, I feel the back of my throat start to burn with an odd sensation.

"I don't know how to," I admit. "I've held onto her so tight for so fucking long, terrified that I'd lose her, that I honestly have no clue how to let go now."

He slides forward on his elbows across the table and nods at me, earnest. "She didn't make you what you are," he says. I frown, confused. "That's what you think right? You think she was the root of it all —your creativity and inspiration —and that without her you have nothing? Well, it's bullshit, Aidan. You're brilliant because you were born with a talent. One that lets you express yourself in ways other people can't. All she did was give you feelings that you wanted to express. What happened to you when you were a child did that too. She was something good you had for a while that drowned out all those horrendous memories you lived with for years. Memories you still live with. But you can't let this ruin you, Aidan. Not when you survived much fucking worse." His voice is soft but forceful and it hits me somewhere between my throat and my chest. I'm struggling to swallow. My eyes feel strange. "I won't fucking let it," he adds.

When I blink I feel something warm and wet run down my face. I squeeze my eyes closed and scrub my hands across them and inhale deeply and release a long breath.

"Yeah well, I think you're a bit late man. Pretty sure I was ruined a long time ago," I tell him.

"That's bullshit as well," he huffs. "But it sounds good for interviews so just keep saying it okay?"