Warren Heartless #3

The Morning After

Warren Heartless woke up to the pounding drumbeat of a hangover, his head throbbing in sync with the dull morning light filtering through the curtains. The air was stale with the lingering scent of bourbon, and his mouth tasted like regret.

He blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented. How did I get home? The last thing he remembered was sitting at his desk, staring at his phone after his wife’s brutal text message.

He sat up, groaning as the room spun. “Lisa?” he called, his voice cracking. Silence answered. He shuffled out of bed and checked the bathroom. Empty.

“Lisa?” He moved through the house, checking every room—the living room, the kitchen, the guest bedroom. All empty.

The reality hit him like a fist to the gut. She was gone. Probably staying with the kids. They disowned me, he remembered bitterly. Called it Grump Derangement Syndrome.

Warren sank into the couch and buried his face in his hands. The house felt cavernous without her presence, every creak and echo amplifying his isolation. The pictures of their life together stared down at him from the mantle—happy wedding memories, their daughter’s graduation, a family trip to the Rockies. Now, the smiles in those photos felt like taunts.

When he finally lifted his head, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV for some noise.

The screen blinked to life, and the first thing he saw was President-Elect Donold J. Grump at a press conference. The camera zoomed in on his smug grin as he spoke.

“This is a time for unity,” Grump declared, his hands gesturing magnanimously. “I have spoken with Governor Gavin Awesome, and I promise we will provide as much assistance as possible. I’m also pleased to announce a new spirit of cooperation with our friends in Canada and Mexico. Their unbelievable help saved lives.”

The reporters erupted with questions, but Grump waved them off with a gracious smile, as though he were a benevolent king granting mercy.

Warren stared, slack-jawed. Is this the same man who just yesterday raged about being shut out of the Altadena scheme? Now Grump was positioning himself as a hero.

Warren’s thumb pressed the channel button, switching from one news channel to the next. Every network was replaying the hot mic moment from Faux Newz. Shawn Vanity’s voice came through, loud and damning.

“Think there’s room for me in this one?”

Warren’s own reply echoed like a death knell: “More. Much more.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and shut off the TV, the silence deafening. He sat for a moment, clutching the remote like a lifeline, before setting it down with a resigned sigh.

Warren dragged himself to the shower, letting the hot water scald his skin in an attempt to wash away the shame. The steam filled the bathroom, cloaking him in a fog that matched the numbness in his chest. When he stepped out, he wiped the fogged mirror and stared at his reflection—hollow-eyed, sallow, and older than he’d looked yesterday.

He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, noticing how gaunt his face had become. His eyes—once sharp with ambition—were now dulled by exhaustion and regret.

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and rummaged through the shelves. He grabbed eggs, bread, and orange juice. He scrambled the eggs in silence, listening to the faint sizzle as they hit the pan. The familiar act felt almost surreal—like playing a role in a life that no longer fit.

He sat at the table and took slow, deliberate bites. The food was tasteless, but he forced himself to eat. Each bite felt mechanical, an attempt at normalcy that only reminded him of how much had broken.

After finishing, he washed his plate and set it on the drying rack. He turned to the liquor cabinet and opened it slowly. Only one bottle of bourbon remained, half gone already. Just enough to remind me how bad things have gotten. He ran his fingers over the glass before shutting the cabinet.

He walked back to the bedroom and pulled on a clean shirt and slacks. The fabric felt stiff against his skin, like a costume for a life he no longer recognized. He hesitated by the mirror again, adjusting his collar out of habit.

He made his way to the garage door, reaching out to flick the light switch. Nothing happened.

Of course, he thought, wincing at the memory of his wife, Lisa, reminding him to replace the bulb countless times. Each time, he’d promised her, “Tomorrow.” And tomorrow had never come.

The garage was steeped in darkness as he stepped inside. The air felt thick and heavy, as though it carried the weight of all the things left unsaid. Warren opened the car door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and buckled himself in. He rested his head against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment.

What happens now? His mind drifted to the inquiries, the investigations that would pick apart his finances, unraveling shell accounts like frayed thread. The shame that would come when the full truth unraveled in public. His legacy—his name—would become synonymous with greed and betrayal.

He reached for the garage door opener and pressed the button. The motor whirred to life, and the door began to rise, bringing in faint light from outside.

Warren’s eyes fluttered open.

The rising sunlight slowly revealed the outline of a figure—a familiar shape.

His breath caught in his throat as the door lifted fully. Lisa was slumped over the hood of the car, pinned against the wall.

Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat stretching into an eternity.

“Lisa!” he gasped, the sound of her name tearing from his throat.

The sound of the garage motor faded into silence. Warren’s hands shook as he reached forward, his heart pounding like a drum. His mind screamed for him to wake up from this nightmare, but the cold reality of the scene before him was undeniable.

He stumbled out of the car, his knees giving way beneath him as he hit the concrete floor. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he scrambled toward her, panic flooding every cell in his body.

His fingers hovered just inches from her arm, as though afraid to confirm what he already knew. The cold stillness of her body was a truth he couldn’t face.

The garage spun around him, tilting and warping under the weight of his grief. His vision blurred with tears as he fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling.

“Please, no... no...” His voice cracked as he dialed 911, barely able to form words when the dispatcher answered. "My wife Lisa is dead, I killed her!" he sobbed. He provided her with their address and hung up, silence filling the garage. The only sound that remained was the relentless pounding of words repeating in his skull,

"You are a piece of shit!"