by K. L. Jessop
Is this him?
“What are you hiding, Dexter?” I whisper, swallowing down the lump in my throat
After he’d told me to wait and then walked out of my front door, I’d been unexpectedly torn between wanting to spend time with my family as it’s been so long since I’ve seen them, and aching to be at Dexter’s side, knowing he needs someone, even though I’d known he would refuse the contact.
The onslaught of dread that’s all too familiar had felt like someone was clawing out my insides when I’d found him laid out in the cold in only a pair of jeans, the empty whiskey bottle in his hand. My breath had caught and my blood had run cold at the thought of losing someone else in my life. Right then had been a sure sign that I can’t live without this man, and when I’d realised he’d drunk himself into oblivion, I’d had to sustain my anger because he could have frozen to death.
He’s been selfish. He’s been reckless. But it isn’t him. It’s the bipolar, so for that, I have to remain silent and help him in the only way I can at this time.
But I’m worried in case I’m doing this all wrong.
Seeing him that way is harder than I’d thought it would be, and I have to question myself, asking if I’m in fact strong enough to be Dexter’s support if I’m still a little vulnerable when it comes to my emotions. But then I remember that look in his eyes and the trauma that had been staring back at me the night before when we’d made love. I can’t walk away from that, and I swore I wouldn’t walk away from him because he has bipolar.
So, I’m staying. And as much as it feels like I’ve been battered already, I’m ready for the war that’s likely to come from him.
Looking at the door that leads up to Dexter’s home, I debate whether or not to go up. I’m longing to hold him, but with the way he spoke to me the other day, I feel it’s best to leave him be. The vindictiveness in his tone had been like a blow to the stomach when he demanded JD. I’d kept telling myself not to take it too personally, but I can’t lie and say it had been easy to hear, either. I’d wanted to be there for him in any way I could, but like always, he’d shut down and closed me off.
The only thing I’d thought I could do for him was to buy him another bottle of alcohol, but as I’d made my way to the shop and stood in front of the bottles, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to purchase one. No matter his demons, I’m not going to be responsible for putting more poison in his system, no matter how much he demands. So, I’d continued home, feeling like I am the worst person in the world, even though I’d done the right thing.
When I open the door to my newly designed office and switch on the light, a loud gasp leaves me, my hand flying to my mouth.
I’m stunned, completely astounded, by what lines the walls, and as I take in the details, tears glass my eyes. The most beautiful, most elegant design of Alice and Wonderland covers the entire back wall of my office in different shades of blue and purple. Toadstools in various sizes line a small road that leads up to a castle behind a black archway of spirals and spokes. Alice herself stands so tiny amongst a world so grand. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on and not only is it that, but it brings more memories than you can possibly imagine.
“Dexter…” I whisper as a tear slips down my cheek, and I press my hand to the cold wall.
“Do you approve?”
I turn quickly when I hear his soft voice behind me, not realising he’d come down. Leaning against the doorframe is a man that looks like the world is on his shoulders. His long hair is tattered around his beautiful face, the upkeep of his beard has been abandoned. The clothes he’s wearing don’t look as though they’ve been washed, and I can already tell that he hasn’t eaten in a while. His eyes are darker than usual, the shadows under them suggesting he’s either hardly slept or slept too heavily, but for the first time since I’ve been with him, what pulls at my heart is the fact there doesn’t appear to be any life in them—big, dark, lifeless hues.
“Of course, I approve. But… why this?”
“I asked Malcolm what character fitted you best. And he said this. Do you not like it?”
“I love it.”
And I love you.
His brows narrow, and the way he’s looking at me it’s as if I’m a stranger. “Then why are you crying?”
“Because…” I turn and look at the wall one more time, thinking of all those times when I was a child. Looking back at Dexter, I swipe my tears away with a smile. “Because it was mine and Persie’s favourite film as kids. We’d role play games at the dinner table. I would be a dark haired Alice and Persie would always be the Madhatter. We loved that film.”
“Never seen it.” His response is abrupt.
Feeling the space between us grow cold the longer we are apart, I step across to him, wanting to thank him for what he has done, wanting to be close again because I’ve missed him, needing him to hold me because I ache for his touch.
As soon as I’m close, he straightens, his body tensing as he folds his arms over his chest, creating a barrier between us that has me swallowing down the negativity he’s made me feel.
“Thank you, Dexter,” I whisper. “You’ve no idea what this means to me. What you mean to me.” Reaching up on my tiptoes, I press my hands against his chest and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth, the whiskey on his breath noticeable. His response is cold, his jaw is locked tight and he makes no attempts to comfort me back or welcome me into his embrace.
I’ve known this would happen: I’ve looked up the symptoms that can present themselves when someone is in a depressive state, and although I should understand, I still can’t help feeling like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
“Hold me, Dexter,” I whisper, knowing I shouldn’t be pushing him. “Please. I want to hold you back.”
"I want to be left alone. You should go home."
I don't want to do that. I'm not going to do that.
I shake my head. “No. I’ve got work to do.”
“I said go home,” he grits, stepping away from me immediately and heading back out into the gallery. But I’m not backing down here. Just because he’s not himself doesn’t mean my life has to stop because of it.
“And I said no.”
“I want to at least try and work and I can’t do that with you here.”
Somehow, I can’t see him doing much in the way of work today because when I’d first started and I learned he was coming out of his bad phase, he’d hardly done any work. But at least he’s trying, and I’m glad because that means I can keep a close eye on him.
"Then work. I shall work in silence so I will not disturb you. But I'm not going home, Dexter. Just because you're having a bad day doesn't mean you have to hide or that I have to stay away."
His nostrils flare and his hands ball at his sides as I prepare for his vicious tongue to lash out words that try to intimidate me when he’s feeling this way. But they never come. He merely mutters something under his breath before storming off to his part of the gallery where his canvases are. He switches the stereo on, louder than ever, and I have the unwelcomed pleasure of heavy music blasting through the speakers, giving me an instant headache.
Turning on my heels, I prepare a coffee before I settle down in front of the laptop, hating the uncertainty that lies in the air. Never seeing the full effect of Dexter’s depressive phases and knowing from the conversation we’ve had that they can be ugly, I’m unsure what to expect and it’s left me on edge.
After about twenty minutes of replying to e-mails, I look up to see how far Dexter has got, and the disappointment I feel for him lies heavy. He’s made no progress with his work. His muscular frame continues to stand in front of the canvas as he stares at it as if he’s waiting for answers. The spray can in his hand is the same one he’d picked up at the start and if it weren’t for the fact his chest is rising and falling, he could be mistaken for a statue.
Like he knows my eyes are on his back, his head moves a fraction, and I see him glance over at me
from the corner of his eye.
The grip on his spray can becomes harder.
I’m in two minds whether to go to him, but as he steps forward and raises his arm, the relief I have for him leaves my chest when he sprays a big black circle in the centre of the canvas.
But then that single move changes everything.
“FUCK!” he roars in temper over the music before throwing the spray can to the floor and launching the canvas across the room.
Smacking his fist down on the stereo, his eyes of fury land on me and the silence in the room is suddenly louder than anything. I go to speak, but my words don’t leave my mouth and before I have a chance to do anything, he’s stormed out of the gallery faster than I can stop him.
He’s getting more alcohol.
Like I know him better than he knows himself, Dexter soon returns with not one but two bottles of JD—one in a cheap shopping bag, the other in his hand and half-drunk already.
Without thinking, I’m out of my seat and stopping his movements as he heads past the office.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m done. I can’t concentrate. I told you to go.”
He’s blaming me.
“Let me make you something to eat. You’ll feel better.”
Like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing in the world, he laughs sarcastically. “Make me feel better. What are you a doctor now?”
“No, I—”
“I’m bi-fucking-polar, Blue. This is the only thing that makes it better.” He holds up the bottles as if they are trophies.
“Alcohol will only suppress your mood, Dexter.”
“Get out of my way.”
He pushes past me and heads upstairs, and I quickly go over to the shutter, turning the key for it to close the gallery. Wanting to be with him but unsure if I should give him space, I stand at the bottom of the stairs, my stomach now cramped with nervousness. I don’t want to leave him because he needs to know he has my support in all of this, but at the same time, it’s his unpredictability that has me feeling this way. The venom I know can come from him is often worse than anything else, but outweighing everything, the rapid beat in my chest that punctuates how much he means to me says it all: the man upstairs needs me and my love.
“Fuck sake,” he mutters when he notices me approaching. “Do you ever listen?”
“Have you ever known me to?”
“No.”
“Then there’s your answer.”
His eyes hold mine for a moment and I swear there’s a sparkle in them from my humour. But if there was, it’s now gone.
“Why are you here?”
“To be with you.”
“I don’t need you.”
“That’s what you may think, but I know different. I’m not going to leave you alone when I know that deep down no matter how much you protest, all you want is someone to be here with you while you ride it out. I’m staying like I promised I would.”
“Why can’t you people respect what I want? Emmet is the fucking same!” he barks. He sits down on the kitchen chair and drinks more JD.
Needing to ignore the fact he’s drinking it like juice, I head to the kitchen and open his fridge, feeling helpless when I find hardly anything inside. “There’s nothing in here, Dexter. When did you last shop?”
“Just now.” From the corner of my eye, I see him hold up the bottle.
“I meant food. When did you last shop for food?”
“I don’t know, Mum. Maybe when I could last be bothered to.”
“I can go and get you some supplies.”
“Yeah, because you people can just throw money at anything.”
Jesus this is hard.
It seems like my wealth is going to be a constant dig from him when he’s low. It had been the same in the beginning. It’s almost like his depressive phases reinforce the massive financial differences between us, only he forgets that regardless of the fact I could buy a house outright if I wanted, money doesn’t bring me happiness. Buying shit doesn’t change the fact I walk around with a hole blown out of my heart because I’ve lost a massive part of me.
Despite the money side and the remarks he throws, what I’m finding hard in all of this is the fact our personalities are likely to clash: Dexter’s spiteful attitude when he’s low is rivalry for my short but sassy fuse. The more he bites, the harder I sink my teeth in. But I have to remain the strong one here. I have to for the sake of each of us and the fact I can’t let his illness be the cause of us falling apart.
Because it’s not fair.
Turning to look at him, my voice softens when I see him staring at the bottle, the desolation in his eyes agonizing, his posture telling me he’s tired. “Tell me what you need?”
“What I need?” he mumbles, his voice broken. “What I need is for you to be fucking quiet. What I need is for everything to stop. What I need is to drink this. And what I want right now is to shut my eyes and never. Fucking. Wake.”
My blood runs cold with his statement, and I hold my stomach as if I’m likely to fall if I should let go. It’s a throw-away comment, but it cripples me that he feels this unhappy—that he wants it to end. “Don’t say that. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs as if this is nothing and tears sting my eyes.
“You asked, I told. It’s how I feel.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, you should.”
“And what about what I feel in all of this?”
“What about you? It’s not like you’ll miss me when I’m gone, and you’ll soon find someone that deserves you so where’s the issue?”
I’m anxious for him to see what I see. I need him to know that I want him more than I want anyone else. I need to make him see.
Going to him, I drop to my knees in front of him and take hold of his wrists, hating that the JD is still the only thing that holds any importance for him as is eyes remain fixed on the bottle.
“The issue is in the words you’ve just spat out as if my feelings in this mean nothing.” My voice cracks, hating that when I need to be strong for him, I’m nothing but weak.
“Look at me, Dexter.” I press harder when he doesn’t, spitting my words out through my teeth. “I said look. At. Me.”
Finally, he does.
“I know you don’t want to be here right now but I need you. And I know you don’t want me here, but I can’t walk away from this—from you. I’ve invested too much of my heart to walk away and I can’t let you do this to yourself, Dexter.”
“Why?” he whispers.
“Because I’ve already lost Persie and it’s been the worst pain in the world. I can’t lose you, too. I can’t. You mean more to me than you’re letting your heart believe.”
As though my falling tears have melted a small part of him, I see his eyes soften and for a second I’ve got my Dexter back. Without words, he takes my hand and stands, leading us to the mattress on the floor. As I lower myself down, I rest my back against the wall before Dexter lays down and rests his head in my lap. When he hands me the bottle of JD, I take the opportunity to drink the liquid, hoping it will steady the vicious anxiety inside from the way he’s unintentionally played with my emotions.
Looking down, I begin to stroke his hair as his eyes fix on mine. Even though he’s softened, I can’t read him. The hues that hold mine remain lifeless and cold. When he reaches up to cup my jaw, he wipes my tears away with the back of his thumb.
“This is killing me, Blue,” he whispers, his own tears now building as he battles the war. “I want it all to stop.”
“Help me so I can help you, Dexter. Talk to me.”
“I’m tired. I’m so tired.” His eyes become heavy and as much as I want him to talk, I know sleep will help him. He needs to rest, and at least that way he won’t be drinking.
“Get some sleep, baby,” I whisper.
“Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t. Promise you’ll find me when you’re ready?”
“I promise.” His eyes close and after a few minutes, his breathing becomes heavier.
I release a loaded breath of my own and brush away the tears that still fall from my eyes. I’m feeling out of my depth, and I don’t know what to do for the better. How can I care for him when I can barely keep it together at all?
Needing as much reassurance and strength as I can possibly get, I reach for my phone and text the one man I know will help me out.
Me: Are you around? Dexter has fallen into a depressive state. I’m struggling a little.
Emmet: I’ll be there soon. Give him space if he needs it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Pepper
"Have you always looked out for him?" I ask Emmet as he hands me a warm cup of coffee. Dexter is still asleep on my lap and has been for over an hour. As much as I knew he needed it, I’ve hated the silence ever since. I’ve just wanted his eyes on me while I listen to his voice. As soon as Emmet walked through the door, though, the relief I felt caused my eyes to fill with tears.
I’ve now become aware that Dexter has often said he no longer wants to be in this world: it’s an expression that once had Emmet on edge, too, but now he knows Dexter is prone to venting in the moment. The bipolar in him makes him feel worthless, and although I’ve known this, I haven’t been able to stop the sudden urgency to forever keep watch over him after his suicidal comment.
"For as long as I’ve known him, yes." Emmet pulls up a chair and sits close to myself and Dexter, watching him as I have been. Our voices are low, so we don’t disturb his rest.
"Even in his bad days?"
"More so then, and I hate being at work when he is like this. I love him like a brother, but I love him harder when I know he’s not got the strength to love himself."
I smile softly, looking back down at Dexter. “That’s a beautiful thing to say.”
If only the man resting against me knew how much love the two of us have for him. If only he knew he’s not on his own when it comes to troubling times. If only he knew he can open up to me and it won’t make a blind bit of difference to me. I know Dexter’s history is bad, and I believe it goes back a lot further than to when Emmet first met him, but regardless, it still won’t change how I feel about him.
