Clock Chimes

Chapter Four (Part two)

The saliva in his mouth grows thick. The waitress comes, and he orders the cheapest red wine on the menu without thinking. The moment she leaves, he rubs his free hand over his face. "I had a.....bad night." He tells her, watching the light leave her eyes.

Because she knows exactly what that means, and she squeezes her eyes shut before recoiling from his touch. "You--" she begins, then opens her eyelids and he sees a sheen above her pretty irises. "Let me see your arm."

"Honey," he begins, but her gaze is fierce and unwavering, and he thinks he's never felt more ashamed of himself than in this moment. Numbly, he pulls his left shirtsleeve up, almost unable to look at her. Almost.

She grasps the skin below his elbow, eyes narrowing at the three fresh puncture wounds on the inside of his forearm, still bright red and sensitive. "You relapsed. I knew it. God, Henry, I KNEW it."

The waitress comes back with the bottle and Henry rips his arm out of her grip and gives the waitress a weak smile as he fumbles to shove the fabric down over the evidence. He picks up the uncorked bottle and pours them two generous glasses.

"Anya," He says finally, taking a long sip and doing his best to meet her eyes. "I don't even know what to do anymore. I thought I was getting better, thought I was finding my way out of this crap, but it was so, so bad last night. I just--I just needed it. I can't explain it."

She's shaking her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "We talked about this."

"Anya, god, mi amor, I know, but I tried so hard, and I failed, and I'm so sorry," he's almost pleading with her, and he feels a sickness in his gut that lets him know that 'sorry' isn't enough this time.

She's openly crying now, the careful thin flicks of eyeliner on her monolids beginning to smudge. "God, Henry, one of these days you are going to KILL yourself. You're actually going to kill yourself, and in case you didn't know, there's people who LOVE you. I'm not going to sit around on my hands and wait for your lack of self-control to let that happen."

His stomach flip-flops, and his heart is beating in his ears. "What does that mean?" He asks slowly.

"I've told you this a hundred times, a thousand times. Get. Help. Go to rehab, do whatever you need to do, but this isn't okay anymore. It never was. When you've gotten your life figured out, what you really want, what's really important to you, then call me." She pushes back from the table and stands up. Her full wine glass contrasts Henry's nearly empty one.

"Anya, please," he stands up, crosses the short distance to her, puts his arms around her. She crumbles into his embrace, fingers gripping the fabric covering his broad back. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how do anything. I want to stop, but the nightmares are so, so bad..." he breaks off, choking back a sob.

"Henry," she silences him, small, dainty, tan fingers combing their way through his too-long, messy hair. "I love you. But you need some time to yourself. You need to figure out what's best for you."

"It's you," He tells her, stupidly; gets lost in her honey-gold, sad, sad eyes.

She closes them, breaking his trance. Then she leans in and kisses him, long and slow and gentle, then she's trailing the back of her hand over the roughness of his jaw, and draws away.

Then she's gone.

The memory leaves a bitter taste on his tongue and he doesn't realize he's crying until his nose begins to run. He's sitting on the porch in August at three A.M. in a winter coat due to his feverish shivering, and he really realizes he needs help.