Chapter Text
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February 8, 2011
My body sank in on itself as I sat there crying in that stolen car.
Everything stopped.
Nothing was going to happen, and yet I was waiting for...for...something. I knew there was no one coming to save me. I was on my own, dealing with my regret and grief—alone.
Just as a couple of cars pulled up into Peter Arndt's driveway, I managed to make my fingers manipulate the ignition wires below the dashboard. Somehow, despite my clumsy efforts, the engine started and I got the car moving. My eyes struggled to focus. I saw four men get out of their cars and start walking, two to the front door of Arndt's house and two to the back. My gut told me that it was past time for me to get outta there, as I'd promised Sullivan. I didn't need to witness what was going to happen. I knew, because I was like those men.
I started driving south once I left New Rochelle. It was less than an hour's drive to Manhattan even during rush hour traffic, but my concentration was shot. By my original estimation, it was going to take me about as long to make the return trip as it had on my way up to New Rochelle riding the Bee Line Bus System.
But I hadn't counted on my emotional state. I ended up pulling off the road several times along the way, because I couldn't see even past the steering wheel. Plus there was rain mixed with snow falling, making the roads slick, the driving more difficult.
Knowing that I'd failed to be there in time to help Jess, that she was gone, I felt numb and hollowed out. There were moments when I couldn't drive any more. Driving safely while crying was not possible.
The front of my dress shirt was damp with tears; the sleeves of my new jacket were slick from where I'd repeatedly wiped my runny nose.
Looking back now, I can see that perhaps my subconscious—what I thought then was my misguided sense of self preservation—stopped me from even thinking about running the car into a concrete wall along the highway, committing suicide right then. Maybe it wasn't even self-preservation. Maybe it was God or my guardian angel protecting me from myself. Something or someone kept me safe. Something wanted me to stay alive, because whatever it was knew I had more yet to do with my life. Something knew it wasn't time for me to crawl into a hole, pull the edges over and down with me. As I look back now, remembering that time, maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought.
I took an offramp from the main highway in Yonkers, and started driving aimlessly through the city. I almost ran out of gas. I found a bus stop that would let me return to the Bronx on a Bee Line Bus. After parking in a residential area, I ditched the car after thoroughly wiping everything down for fingerprints. Right then, I couldn't stop old, deeply ingrained habits.
The knife cut on my belly started to burn. I'd forgotten all about it, what with the shock of learning about Jessica's death, and later dealing with Arndt. I had to return to my hotel room in The Bronx. I needed to check up on that cut as well as get back to my stuff I'd left there.
I'd paid cash for a week in advance for the room where I'd stayed the night before my bus ride to New Rochelle. I hadn't been sure how much time I was going to need to stay and help Jessica. That backpack I'd traveled with for two months was still there. I didn't think I'd needed anything I'd carried with me when I'd visited with her at the hospital.
I found myself walking in the same city neighborhood—was it only two days ago? My mind vacillated from empty, blank, black visions to the blissful plans and dreams I'd expected for my future with Jess.
It was dark and past getting late. The rain and snow had stopped, which was good, but I could feel the temperature dropping as it got darker.
On my way back to the fleabag hotel, I walked past a small liquor store, went in and bought what later turned out to be a long series of small pint bottles of cheap whiskey.
When I got to my room, I locked the door behind me. I checked and re-bandaged the cut, and then drank myself to sleep. My goal—to block my pain, to stop thinking about Jess and how I'd lost her because I was too late. My plan was to commit what I thought of as "slow self euthanasia." A slow death, just like the slow, deliberate torture Jess had endured living with Peter, who had finally killed her.
I drank because I wanted to escape any possibility of dreaming about Jessica. I didn't want dream about her. I didn't want her to tell me how I'd failed her. Deep down, I knew my life was meant to be a never ending disaster.
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