Myocardium

Without exaggeration, the pain I feel so deeply rooted inside of me is agonizing. 

Before continuing my job as I'm intended to, I grab a syringe and squirt some of the heroin into my bloodstream to numb this pain. However, the effects it has are limited. No amount could take all the pain away. 

Unless I overdose on it. 

That's when I'd know it's enough to take all the suffering off my shoulders. 

Forever. 

With all the fight I have left in me, I undress to take a shower. Tears resume streaming down my cheeks, I've quit sobbing by now. 

Yet the memories are still here, replaying over and over again in my mind like a broken record, begging to be fixed and sounding more and more distorted with every single time it rewinds back to the part I've already heard a thousand times and memorized when trying my hardest to forget about it. 

Maybe this isn't even about forgetting. 

If only I could cope with it, at least. 

"I'm sorry, Elijah. Your parents were shot by bad, bad people. They're dead, darling."

These are the words that keep repeating in my head. Joe made sure to break the news to me before the police could get the chance. There was no sugar-coating, nothing. Those words ended my childhood. The pain in my heart is close to unbearable.

I miss them so, so much.

This feeling, I usually push it down, don't want to face the fact that they are indeed never coming back into my life, that this big part of my reality is simply gone, dead, ripped out of my existence in the worst possible moment. 

Then again, is time ever right for losing your parents?

My shower lasts a lot longer than it should, for the sole reason of me trying desperately to delay. Disregarding my surroundings close to entirely, I walk past the others, who give me concerned eyes from all angles. They know that death is a sensitive topic for me, but nobody really knows why. I guess nobody dares to ask me about it either. It's much too personal for us to talk about, but all of my co-workers can see that I'm suffering. 

Even if it was just for another night or two, she should have stayed until she didn't want to leave anymore.

How am I supposed to push those tears away when I'm with the clients? Hell, the smell of her cologne still lingers in the locker-room, how can she be dead? 

Fuck, there return the tears. 

Fuck.

Okay, okay. 

Deep breaths, Eli, deep breaths. 

I get dressed, dismissing any makeup or other efforts completely. 

For those of the clients who really want it, I'm just a hole anyways, so why make myself more than I am?

With every single move I make reminding me of her, I'll never make it through the night. 

Damnit. 

The lounge I walk into is depressingly silent. Yes, music is playing and clients are chatting, but it is so painfully quiet. It's us workers who can tell how terrible the atmosphere is. Empathetic looks here, fake smiles there, it's tedious to experience. 

With tears dwelling to the corners of my red eyes, I walk straight to the bar and let myself sink onto a barstool, wiping the wetness off my cheeks aggressively.