Beverley

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There, the realisation hit me. They think I am dead because I was going to get on that plane. But I didn't. I changed my mind somehow. "I - I never got on it." He gasps. "I changed my mind in the last minute." Beverley thinks I am dead. "Where is Beverley? Does he think I'm dead, too?"

"Gwen," he starts off. "Beverley blamed himself on your death."

"I'm not dead," I remind him assuringly. "I'm alive and kicking. Tell him to bring his ass over here and hug me."

"He can't," he mumbles.

"What? Why? Did he move out of the town?"

"He died."

It escalated so quickly, like smashing onto ground or my heart shattering into pieces. I can't answer for minutes - my eyes wide and my mouth open - and he breaks the uncomfortable silence. "I am sorry, Gwen." He is honest and sincere, I just sense that. I throw myself into his arms, in the hope of finding a familiar side of Beverley in his best friend. Unfortunately not, he is gone. He is gone because of me. And I haven't even told him yet.

"He died because of me," I say unconsciously, as if I say it aloud, it makes it less painful. Conversely, it gets worse. "He thought I was dead."

"He loved you." I look in his eyes and he grins bitterly. "He didn't die on purpose, Gwen, it wasn't like committing suicide. He was so drunk and a truck hit him. It was no one's fault but his." His explanation is weak, unbelievable and it doesn't satisfy me. He died on me. I was the cause - why he was so drunk in the first place. I caused his death, directly or not.

I blink several times. I can't believe he is dead. Beverley is dead. My Beverley. "Is he," - I gulp down, "in the graveyard?"

"Want me to take you?" He asks politely.

"No," I simply answer. "Not yet."

*

There I am, instead of visiting my dead boyfriend's grave, gulping down my fourth shot of vodka and I feel already dizzy. Alcohol doesn't wash the pain or guilt away, it just makes it bearable, of course, temporarily. I am aware of everything, yet I don't seem to take lessons from my actions and its consequences. As though I don't know what the last time caused me. My boyfriend's life.

I hiccup with realization of his death once again, deep down waiting someone or Beverley himself to show up here and caress my back assuringly. I want him to say: "I am sorry for being a terrible joker." Then, when he says that with expectant eyes of forgiveness, I want to shout at him but meanwhile, hug him. I want to be angry and relieved at the same time. I want him so badly to return. I want him alive.

I let the sharp taste of vodka travel inside my throat, slowly pouring down to my stomach. I like the pain, how little it feels when compared to the one in my heart. On the other hand, I don't like what I am doing right now. I don't like the more I drink, the more carefree and numb I become. I don't like I do the same mistake once again although I vowed not to commit it in the first place.

I shake my head to awake myself and it semi-works. I glance around and notice only a few people left in the bar. I snap at the clock on the wall in front of me and realise it is already midnight. However, I am not done, I don't feel like the pain gone.

The bartender puts another glass and looks at me with a smirk. "Before you order."

I roll my eyes at him and I feel guilty for sitting at there and almost flirting with a bartender. "I actually stopped," I remark sarcastically and his face falls for a second.

He manages it well and places another playful grin. His eyes still fixed on me, he shoves the glass away from me and I catch his hand in the middle. "Don't," I say hesitantly and it causes his smirk to widen. "I - I can call this one last, instead."