Page 65 of Missing Piece (Neon Scars #2)

A dam’s apartment door creaked open, the scent of stale neglect hitting him like a wall.

Darkness swallowed the room, save for the slivers of streetlight seeping through broken blinds.

His heart galloped, erratic with anxiety.

He groped for the light switch, flicking it on to reveal chaos.

Clothes scattered across the floor, drawers yanked open, their contents spilling out like entrails from a wound.

Dad must’ve had a field day.

Adam stumbled over to the futon and collapsed into it, its worn fabric embracing him with the familiarity of old regrets.

His skin stung as the painful overlap of being both too hot and cold hit him, a reminder of his mad dash through the night, shirtless and desperate.

He’d told Luka and Matteo he needed a smoke to calm down but bolted as soon as he was out of sight.

The adrenaline from running had barely begun to wear off.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if he could pull some sense from his mind. A million thoughts raced through his head, each one crashing into the next like waves in a storm. Vincent’s face swam into view, those icy blue eyes that once seemed almost warm .

“Stupid,” he hissed. “So stupid.”

“No one can satiate his hunger for long…” Richard’s words from back in the club bathroom bounced around in his mind.

He had been able to push the echoes of the memory away when it had just been them at the farmhouse.

Vincent was kind and sweet to him. Loving.

But seeing Vincent act like that fractured that idea.

Adam leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in hands. His breaths came shallow and quick as if trying to escape the realization clawing at his insides.

“You were just shacking up with a monster,” he said aloud, needing to hear the words to believe them. “And you thought…God, you thought…”

The room felt suffocating, closing in around him with every passing second. He stood abruptly, knocking over an empty beer bottle that clattered noisily across the floor. He paced the small space of his apartment, steps heavy with frustration and despair.

Vincent had made him feel safe for a moment, like he mattered. But it was all a lie, a dangerous fantasy.

Adam’s chest heaved as the sobs broke free. He sank to the floor, clutching at his sides as if trying to hold himself together. You almost got yourself killed for a monster. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Stop crying, you fucking idiot. Stop fucking crying.

The weight of the confrontation with Richard bore down on him, each memory a fresh wound.

Richard’s face, dark and monstrous, haunted him; the delight in his voice at the violence and depravity he was ready to inflict, and then to see that same predatory look on Vincent’s face, to hear that same delight when they were with Caleb …

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself through clenched teeth. He didn’t want to think about that.

His fingers dug into the thick material of his jeans, knuckles turning white as he fought against the rising tide of hopelessness. The idea of facing that side of Vincent again, even as a pretense, twisted something deep inside him.

How could you love someone capable of that?

You don’t deserve love.

You’re meant to be alone. You only deserve the love of a monster that will kill you.

His sobs grew quieter but no less intense. His mind was trying to make so many contradicting ideas fit together, and it hurt.

Adam’s gaze drifted towards the bathroom door, a flicker of dangerous temptation igniting. He knew what lay hidden there—the pills he’d stashed away for emergencies, for moments just like this when the pain became unbearable.

They can take it all away. You won’t have to feel this anymore.

No …He had so many days clean he had lost count. So many days without even thinking about using…

Only because you had to worry about keeping all your blood in your body.

He shook his head violently as if trying to dislodge the thoughts clinging to his mind like leeches. But they persisted, wrapping around his resolve and squeezing tight.

“What’s the point?” he whispered brokenly. “Why keep fighting?”

The allure of oblivion called to him, promising an end to the torment. His body wavered with indecision as he slowly pushed himself off the floor and took tentative steps towards the bathroom .

With each step closer, his mind screamed for release while some faint part of him begged for another way out—a way that didn’t involve numbing himself into nothingness.

But that negative voice drowned out all else.

Just do it. You were never truly lovable anyway. You’re a fucking junkie. Just be a junkie.

Adam made his way into the bathroom, flicking on the light of a singular lightbulb that hadn’t burned out. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing mockingly around him as he watched himself from a far corner of his mind, detached from the body that now went through the motions.

He lifted the back of the toilet lid, the weight of it stilling his hands’ movement for a moment. He had forgotten how cold the water in the back of the tank was, but the shock of it did not deter him as he detached the stash with a jerky yank.

The pill bottle felt heavier than it should have, but the layers of plastic wrap and Ziploc baggies had kept the water out. His hands shook uncontrollably as he began to unwrap the bottle, each layer peeled away with excruciating slowness and sending a flurry of water droplets all around him.

Adam’s breath hitched as he stared at the bottle in his palm. The temptation to open it and swallow every pill gnawed at him like a ravenous beast. He could almost taste the bitter relief they promised, an end to all the pain and confusion.

“What’s the point?” he muttered to himself again, voice cracking.

He gripped the bottle tighter, knuckles whitening. The pills were so close, just one twist away. But something deep inside him resisted, clinging desperately to whatever shred of hope remained.

His body shook with sobs as he stood there in the bathroom, teetering on the edge of self-destruction. The pills rattled in the bottle, both a warning and an insistent call to surrender.

He pried open the bottle and poured ten bright yellow pills into his clammy palm. He stared at them, mesmerized by their simple promise of escape. Had these been in his pocket these last few weeks, he realized, his life would have been a very different story.

The pills would have numbed all the agony and pain he had endured. A world without feeling, without the crushing weight of his emotions, seemed almost appealing.

But a chilling realization washed over him, stealing the warmth from his brief fantasy. It wouldn’t have been just the bad.

He wouldn’t have felt Vincent’s strange warmth on that night out on the porch under the moon.

He wouldn’t have experienced those butterflies in his stomach when Vincent looked at him with those intense blue eyes.

The desire, the passion, the pleasure—none of it would have pierced through the fog of numbness.

Even with all the horror and confusion surrounding their relationship, there had been moments that felt real and good.

A sudden, sharp knock on the front door shattered the silence, pulling Adam back to reality with a jolt. His entire body tensed. He didn’t need to guess who it was.

Vincent’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, called out his name.

His hand flew to his mouth, the pills clinking against his teeth as his jaw snapped shut almost involuntarily. For a heartbeat, he considered it—swallowing them all, ending it before it could get any worse. But the sheer number of pills gave him pause. It was reckless, even for him .

He didn’t actually want to die, did he?

You don’t want to die.

The thought surfaced, small and hesitant, a seedling pushing through cracked concrete. He didn’t even think he wanted to be high. He just wanted…clarity. Simplicity. An answer that made sense of the tangled mess his life had become.

Vincent’s pounding on the door grew more urgent, each blow vibrating through the floorboards as he continued to call out. Adam could hear the strain in his voice, the frantic edge of genuine concern.

Or was he imagining it? Projecting his own feelings onto the situation?

What if he was misinterpreting everything? Twisting Vincent’s actions to fit a narrative that only existed in his own head?

A loud crack echoed through the apartment as the front door burst open, but Adam didn’t turn around.

He couldn’t. Not yet. He had a decision to make.

The pills were heavy in his hand, a tangible representation of the choice before him—numbness or pain, oblivion or…

whatever awaited him on the other side of this.

“Adam…”

Vincent’s voice wrapped around him like a lifejacket.

“Please don’t…”

Adam squeezed his eyes shut, tears burning hot tracks down his cheeks. As much as it hurt, he couldn’t let this break him. He would feel it all—the good, the bad, and the uncertainty.

With an unsteady exhale, he tilted his hand, letting the pills cascade into the toilet bowl. He didn’t hesitate. He pressed down on the handle, watching as the water swirled, swallowing his escape before vanishing down the drain.

Only then did he turn to face Vincent.

Vincent stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red and wide with a mixture of fear and relief. His gaze darted to the scattered pills swirling in the toilet bowl, then back to Adam. Vincent took a hesitant step forward, hands outstretched as if approaching a wounded animal.

“Adam,” Vincent breathed. “Let me explain—”

Adam met his gaze as he slapped Vincent’s hand away. “Did you mean it?” he demanded, his fists balling at his sides.

“No, all that back there, none of it. It was just for show—”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Adam cut him off, voice sharp with accusation. “Did you mean what you said back in the warehouse? That you loved me?”

“Adam—”

“Did you mean it?!”