Up In Smoke
Summary: All of Liv's dreams go up in smoke.
“Go home.”
Asshole. His words fell on deaf ears. The last thing I wanted was him playing big brother and trying to tell me what I should be doing. Go home. Like I would feel any different if I walked into that apartment.
“Come on, Liv,” he soothed as he put his hand on my arm. “You win some, you lose some. You’re old enough to know that.”
I jerked free of his touch. It felt alien-unknown-unfamiliar. The last thing I needed was relationship advice from Mr. Heterosexual.
“Look, all I’m saying is that you had to have known something like this would happen. You didn’t hose this up. She did.”
I stood up from my desk and grabbed my jacket from my chair as I avoided his eyes. I knew I’d find warmth and consolation, but I feared nothing but silent condemnation and judgment. If I didn’t look, I’d never have to know and that was just a better option for me.
“You’re better than her. Remember that, Liv.” His words floated across the nearly empty room and into the quickly shutting elevator doors.
Was I really better than her? How could I be? I was the daughter of an alcoholic that took a tumble down subway stairs and died on the street. I was the daughter of a rapist. I lived in a crap-hole apartment and worked my ass off because I had no life to speak of. I lived paycheck to paycheck and often robbed Peter to pay Paul.
How was that better than her? She was a WASP through and through, born to be a lawyer. Despite the silver spoon protruding from her mouth, she had gone into prosecution instead of working for the big bucks as a defense attorney. She had this amazing apartment with floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the park. There was never any consideration of money as she was never in need of it. She had socialite friends and knew people in high places that could make all her dreams come to fruition.
No, I wasn’t better than her. I was beneath her.
I pulled my collar tight around my neck as I trudged the twelve blocks in the cold to my apartment. I was already emotionally numb and the thought of being physically numb was just the icing on the cake. It would mean that I could save that bottle of Maker’s Mark for another night.
I pulled the door shut behind me and went straight into the bedroom. I grabbed a box and gathered everything I had that could remind me of her. The ticket stub from the Knicks game we went to even though she hated basketball. The picture of ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. The card that was with the first bouquet of flowers she sent after our first night together. The piece of paper she had hastily written her address down on for our first date. The t-shirt she’d sleep in (when she actually wore something to sleep in) when she spent the night. I grabbed a few pictures from their frames in the living room and tossed them into the box, leaving the now empty frames lying haphazardly around to echo how I felt. I paused before tossing in today’s newspaper still open to the society section.
I grabbed scissors and a lighter and stepped out onto my fire escape. I studied the newspaper. Bureau Chief to Wed. That sure as fuck wasn’t me in the picture beside her. I cut out the picture and set it aside before snipping the article around it into a hundred shreds and dropping it back in the box. I held the t-shirt up to my face and breathed deeply. It still smelled like her. Clutching it in both hands, I pulled roughly, ripping it in two and dropping it back in the box. Every item-every memory-that was once so precious to me was reduced to nothing more than tatters within moments. It took more time for me to destroy the memory of my relationship with her than it did for her to break my heart into a million pieces.
I stuck the scissors in the back pocket of my jeans and lifted the picture of the two of them. How had I not noticed that enormous rock on her hand last night when she came over? When had she had time to date him when it seemed like what free time we had was always spent together? Why hadn’t she even tried to hide the paper this morning instead of leaving it open to this section? As I felt the warm tears slide over my cheeks, I knew I’d never get the answers I wanted and deserved.
I pulled out the lighter and flicked it into life. I let the fire dance at the edge of the picture before moving it close enough to catch. When the flames licked at my fingers, I held on a little longer than I should have just so that I could feel something before dropping it into the box among the tattered shreds of my former relationship. Almost as quickly as the remnants burst into flames, they fizzled out. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of the situation. It was just like our relationship. It had burned hot and bright, but quickly died. My laughter turned into tears as I ducked my head to climb back into my apartment, the smoke that had drifted in my only companion.
A/N: Thanks for the prompt, Smarty :)
“Go home.”
Asshole. His words fell on deaf ears. The last thing I wanted was him playing big brother and trying to tell me what I should be doing. Go home. Like I would feel any different if I walked into that apartment.
“Come on, Liv,” he soothed as he put his hand on my arm. “You win some, you lose some. You’re old enough to know that.”
I jerked free of his touch. It felt alien-unknown-unfamiliar. The last thing I needed was relationship advice from Mr. Heterosexual.
“Look, all I’m saying is that you had to have known something like this would happen. You didn’t hose this up. She did.”
I stood up from my desk and grabbed my jacket from my chair as I avoided his eyes. I knew I’d find warmth and consolation, but I feared nothing but silent condemnation and judgment. If I didn’t look, I’d never have to know and that was just a better option for me.
“You’re better than her. Remember that, Liv.” His words floated across the nearly empty room and into the quickly shutting elevator doors.
Was I really better than her? How could I be? I was the daughter of an alcoholic that took a tumble down subway stairs and died on the street. I was the daughter of a rapist. I lived in a crap-hole apartment and worked my ass off because I had no life to speak of. I lived paycheck to paycheck and often robbed Peter to pay Paul.
How was that better than her? She was a WASP through and through, born to be a lawyer. Despite the silver spoon protruding from her mouth, she had gone into prosecution instead of working for the big bucks as a defense attorney. She had this amazing apartment with floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the park. There was never any consideration of money as she was never in need of it. She had socialite friends and knew people in high places that could make all her dreams come to fruition.
No, I wasn’t better than her. I was beneath her.
I pulled my collar tight around my neck as I trudged the twelve blocks in the cold to my apartment. I was already emotionally numb and the thought of being physically numb was just the icing on the cake. It would mean that I could save that bottle of Maker’s Mark for another night.
I pulled the door shut behind me and went straight into the bedroom. I grabbed a box and gathered everything I had that could remind me of her. The ticket stub from the Knicks game we went to even though she hated basketball. The picture of ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. The card that was with the first bouquet of flowers she sent after our first night together. The piece of paper she had hastily written her address down on for our first date. The t-shirt she’d sleep in (when she actually wore something to sleep in) when she spent the night. I grabbed a few pictures from their frames in the living room and tossed them into the box, leaving the now empty frames lying haphazardly around to echo how I felt. I paused before tossing in today’s newspaper still open to the society section.
I grabbed scissors and a lighter and stepped out onto my fire escape. I studied the newspaper. Bureau Chief to Wed. That sure as fuck wasn’t me in the picture beside her. I cut out the picture and set it aside before snipping the article around it into a hundred shreds and dropping it back in the box. I held the t-shirt up to my face and breathed deeply. It still smelled like her. Clutching it in both hands, I pulled roughly, ripping it in two and dropping it back in the box. Every item-every memory-that was once so precious to me was reduced to nothing more than tatters within moments. It took more time for me to destroy the memory of my relationship with her than it did for her to break my heart into a million pieces.
I stuck the scissors in the back pocket of my jeans and lifted the picture of the two of them. How had I not noticed that enormous rock on her hand last night when she came over? When had she had time to date him when it seemed like what free time we had was always spent together? Why hadn’t she even tried to hide the paper this morning instead of leaving it open to this section? As I felt the warm tears slide over my cheeks, I knew I’d never get the answers I wanted and deserved.
I pulled out the lighter and flicked it into life. I let the fire dance at the edge of the picture before moving it close enough to catch. When the flames licked at my fingers, I held on a little longer than I should have just so that I could feel something before dropping it into the box among the tattered shreds of my former relationship. Almost as quickly as the remnants burst into flames, they fizzled out. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of the situation. It was just like our relationship. It had burned hot and bright, but quickly died. My laughter turned into tears as I ducked my head to climb back into my apartment, the smoke that had drifted in my only companion.
A/N: Thanks for the prompt, Smarty :)