Chapter 93

• Haven sat at the edge of his bed, gazing at the purge walls of his room. His eyes were coated over, still puffy from the restless evenings that had ended up his new typical. The calm murmur of the fridge in the kitchen and the intermittent squeak of the ceiling fan were the sounds that filled the still air. It had been weeks since Alexis left, but her flight waited like an expanding wound, crude and rotting.
• At first, he had tried to form a sense of it all, to replay each event, each minute that might have driven her to walk away. How had he missed the signs? What did he do wrong? But those thoughts were like needles in his mind, wounding persistently, and before long, indeed thinking about her got to be as well difficult. He required something to make it gloomy. Something to obscure the edges of the memory that frequented him each time he closed his eyes.
• Haven faltered toward the little bar in the corner of the living room, his legs temperamental and insecure. The cabinet was not neat; bottles were tipped over, a few half-empty, others scarcely touched, and all of them calling to him like a siren's melody. He came to the closest bottle, vodka and turned the cap off, not bothering to seize a glass. The cold fluid burned because it slid down his throat, a brief sting that gave way to deadness.