Page 61 of Existential

“I didn’t know who to trust anymore. I still don’t.”

His face burns red as he skids his chair backward, standing with both fists closed on the table. “I served alongside your father for over twenty-five years, you little shite, and watched as that fuckin’ mad woman ripped a hole in his heart. And you,” he says, shoving a thick finger at me, his accent strong in his rage, “are tellin’ me you don’t trust me?”

“Sit down,” King urges quietly.

“No,” Murphy rages. “He owes us a fuckin’ explanation. Come on boy.” He throws his arms wide. “Tell your brothers what they’ve done to lose your trust.”

The words don’t come. The pressure from them all staring at me, waiting on an answer is too much. Air is thick and heavy in my lungs, blood feeling like lava as it moves through my veins. My knotted and twisted stomach threatens to unfurl at warp speed sending the contents skyward.

So I bail.

I don’t have the adequate words to explain that it’s not them who are to blame for the lost trust, but the fact I don’t believe in myself anymore. I can’t place trust in anyone, or anything these days, and that makes it damn hard to believe that there’s good out there in the world for the taking when you’re forever wondering what’s going to fall apart next.

I take the coward’s way out and swim for the surface, fighting the black ocean of my mind as I gasp for the life-saving breath that only comes with solitude.

“I need a fuckin’ smoke,” I mutter as I rise from the table and push through the doors.

A ruckus breaks out behind me, but I don’t stop. I don’t turn around, and I sure as fuck don’t acknowledge what I’ve done.

I’ve tapped out. Failed. Crumbled at the last hurdle.

I’ve committed career suicide.