3- Jem

3.
Jem:

I hung up the phone to Q and just paced in my room, the new vodka bottle in my hand. I closed my eyes, I felt like chucking it across the room, I needed a friend, so I called Q, hoping he’d be supportive, but instead all he did was throw it back into my face. I fell to the floor and put my head in my hands, I cried and I cried. Making no attempt to stop myself. I had sunken low, lower then low and all I could do right then was cry. I was tired of crying, of yelling, of being sad, of being alone, of being angry, of needing help, of feeling worthless, of feeling empty inside, of wishing I could start all over, of dreaming of a life I will never have. But most of all I was tired of being tired.
     I needed to talk to someone though, Quentin was out of the question, he’d just tell me to call him in the morning. All I had left was Amy. I sat up, the bottle still in my hand, and left. I didn’t take anything with me apart from the vodka. I staggered down the streets at dawn, taking giant sips of alcohol as I went, until I arrived at her door. It was already opened when I got there, the lights were on and it was silent through the whole house. Almost too silent.
     “Amy? Are you there?” I pushed open the door and entered.
     The hall was long and at the end was her lounge. All I could see was her sofa and the light from her T.V flickering in the darkness of the room. I frowned and walked in further. The bottle still wrapped in my hand. I followed the way down until I arrived there; I walked in and looked left. An old fashioned, black and white film was on, I looked right and that’s when I saw her.
     She was lying on the ground, blood pouring from her chest, a gun to side of her, sitting in a large pool of red liquid. I dropped the vodka bottle and ran over to her. Amy’s eyes were open, they looked almost glass like, and they stared into nothing. I trailed my hand over her wound, the blood was fresh. I knelt down into the pools, not caring her blood was now on me. All I wanted to do was cradle her. I took her under her arms and lifted Amy up. I hung her over my arm and looked into her eyes. They were so dead, so cold and so un-human like. I looked at the gun, it was so familiar, that when it clicked into my drunken mind, I just wanted to run and run, never looking back. The gun that had killed Amy belonged to me. I looked at her, tears falling down my cheeks.
     “I’m so sorry. If I had reported that robbery, you might be alive right now,” I said, rocking her back and forth. “This is my entire fault. I’ve grow up into a total idiot. The drink controlled me and my actions. It shouldn’t have, I’m sorry, Amy. I really am. I’ll prove to you that I’m a good man, I’ll turn my life around like you told me too. I know that won’t bring you back, but I just hope you’ll know; I really am sorry.” 
     I put her back down and left. I ran home, leaving the door wide open, hoping someone will find her and call the police. I just didn’t have the heart to, I didn’t trust them. They’d probably tell me to shove off or tell me to stop drunk calling them like they did all those years ago.
     So I ran, but I looked back. To this day I do and to this day I realize I should’ve called the emergency services when I saw her body, and maybe if I did, I wouldn’t have been in such a mess.