Forget-me-not

"Hunh?"...

The door is shaking. On the other side of it, curses and jangling metal bangs against the door.

I look at the clock. 2:24 a.m.

Typical.

"Babe. Shit, babe. Wake up!"

He turns on the lamp by the bed.

I roll over, expecting yet another line of overdramatic stories, hoping that he would see my pink-flowered nightgown and tousled hair to realize that I really don't care anymore.

I look at him. Blood is trickling down his forehead tracing the scrunched lines that always made him look like one of those Wrinkles dogs.

"What the hell happened to you!?"

"Babe. I was with the guys, you know. Just minding my own business, eh. And, then, you know, some f*#&ing guy wanted to pick a fight. And...damn. I can't remember what else happened. But the cops are looking for me and I gotta get outta here ASAP."

He scans the room for what he needs the most. He picks up his gym bag and piles in 3 dirty undershirts that are sitting by the heater, 2 hoodies, his cologne, toothbrush by the kitchen sink, mouthwash, wool socks and the photo of his baby brother.

"I don't know what to do. I'm in so much shit, man!"

I sit on the bed, stunned, watching him pack everything he needs, knowing he's never going to come back home. I hold onto the moment before he went out with the guys, when I kissed him and said "I love you. Please come home safe...", a recycled statement these days; nothing but a waste of breath.

The man who used to wrap me in his arms is now a criminal.

"Don't forget these..." I throw him the pair of boxer shorts I gave to him for Valentine's Day.

He doesn't even hesitate to feel my quiet heartache, hoping that he will remember me.

He slathers mustard on a white piece of bread and grabs his wallet and clips the chain onto his belt loop.

The room is left with the linger of beer and puke mixed together.

He's gone.

I sit in the middle of the living room floor, the carpet scratchy on my bare legs. Which is fine. Right now it's the only thing that's reminding me that I'm still alive.