Chapter 1 of Windy City Heartache

One

I shuffled slowly and bitterly through the thick wooden doors of my Albany Park apartment building, shaking off the cold and cursing the night before stepping into the dark, empty, damp living room. The apartment itself is empty, dead, unlike the thoughts racing through my head that won’t even allow me a minute’s rest. The place reeks of beer and cigarettes and the coffee table is littered with peanut shucks and cigarette ashes from my roommate Ron. Fuck it. It’s not my mess so I’m not picking it up. I’d rather live in the filth than clean up after somebody else.
Disgusted with what remains in the living room I make my way into the kitchen and into the refrigerator to open up a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best. I take my time opening the ice cold can as I’m still shivering from the cold winter’s wind I just came in from. I tilt the open can slowly and meticulously up to my lips and tell the can “At least you’ll never break my heart” before giving it a warm passionate kiss like it were the last and most beautiful woman on Earth.
I take the twelve pack out of the fridge and bring it into my bedroom where I sit on my twin mattress on the floor amongst the boxes of records and CD’s and books I’ve neglected to unpack for the last nine or so months I’ve lived in this miserable dump. I pop in a Jawbreaker CD and “Do You Still Hate Me” emanates out of the speakers, filling the trashed room with a certain spark and beauty and sadness that would otherwise never rear its way into this dwelling spot.
I sit there on the mattress drinking, getting drunk and trying not to think about it, about her. As I begin draining the tenth beer the singer’s gravelly voice spits out the lines “I have a picture of you and me in Brooklyn. On a porch, it was raining. Hey, I remember that day.” And I can feel my heart break all over again. Tears begin welling up in my eyes and I slam the empty can into the wall and furiously yank up every picture I have of her, rushing into the living room and throwing the pictures into the unlit mock fireplace. I stumble back to my bedroom for a last beer and a box of matches and set those pictures ablaze while draining that one last beer in a hurry in the living room again.
The pictures go out with no distinguishing needed and I wipe away the tears that painted my pale face just seconds earlier. I make my way into the bathroom and stand before the mirror, feeling defeated, broken, and worthless. I stare into the reflection in the mirror, peering through angry drunken eyes at the figure before me with dark purple bags under its eyes and sunken-in cheekbones and can’t believe I’m staring at myself. I contemplate spitting or putting my fist through that mirror but try to tell myself enough is enough, that I can’t let her do this to me, I can’t let her win, I can’t let her beat me. I can tell myself this over and over again but deep down inside I know she already has won and she already has done this to me. I skip washing my face and brushing my teeth and head into my bedroom where I grind my teeth and bite my nails and wait for sleep to come and tomorrow morning I’ll wake knowing I’ll face another day much like this one.