MARK GAMMILL
POETRY - STORIES - NECROSHADE
NEED YOU NOW
​The bottle was almost empty. John turned it in his hand, watching the last inch of whiskey slosh against the glass. He should have stopped drinking hours ago, but stopping was the last thing on his mind. The room smelled of cigarettes, old wood, and something stale—something lonely.
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He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, the phone in his hand. His thumb hovered over her name. He told himself he wouldn’t call. He had told himself a lot of things. That he was fine. That he didn’t need her. That he could sleep without hearing her voice, without feeling the warmth of her next to him.
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Outside, the city was quiet. A siren in the distance, the occasional hum of a passing car. The kind of silence that made everything worse.
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He set the phone down and reached for the whiskey.
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The burn in his throat was familiar. Comforting, in a way. He ran a hand over his face, his beard rough against his palm. The apartment was a mess. Clothes on the floor, empty bottles on the counter. A plate from two days ago still sitting on the table.
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She would have hated it.
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She used to pick up after him. It had annoyed her. “John, you live like a damn stray dog,” she’d say, rolling her eyes and stacking his dishes in the sink.
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But she’d always done it anyway.
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And now, there was no one left to do it.
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He glanced at the door.
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The same way he had every night.
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Hoping.
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Hoping she’d walk through it. That she’d drop her bag on the floor, sigh, and run her fingers through her hair the way she always did. She’d say, “John, you look like hell.” And he’d laugh, and she’d laugh, and that would be it.
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But the door stayed shut.
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He looked back at the phone.
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Did she ever think about him?
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Or was she fine, wherever she was? Was she drinking whiskey, too? Looking at a different door, hoping for someone else?
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He picked up the phone again.
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He had sworn he wouldn’t do this.
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But it was late.
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And the loneliness was a weight, heavy in his chest.
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He pressed Call.
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The phone rang.
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Once.
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Twice.
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Then her voice.
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Not live, just a recording. “Hey, it’s Emily. Leave a message.”
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He closed his eyes.
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The beep came, and he sat there, breathing into the silence.
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His voice cracked when he spoke.
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“I just—” He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again.
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“I just need you now.”
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He hung up.
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Set the phone down.
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And waited.
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He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing. The bottle was empty now, but he still reached for it. His fingers wrapped around the neck, lifting it, tilting it against his lips. Just a few drops. He let it rest against his knee.
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The room blurred around him. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was something else.
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A memory came to him, clear as day.
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They had been sitting in this same room, late at night, the radio playing something soft. Emily curled up beside him, wearing his old Army sweatshirt, her hair damp from the shower. She smelled like soap and lavender and that amazing scent of hers.
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“You think we’ll always be like this?” she had asked.
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John had smiled, kissed the top of her head. “Like what?”
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“Just here. Together.”
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He had laughed. “Where else would we be?”
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She didn’t answer.
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And now, here he was. Alone.
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He rubbed his eyes.
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The clock on the nightstand glowed 1:37 AM.
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She wasn’t calling back. He knew that.
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Still, he reached for the phone again.
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Typed out a message.
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I miss you.
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His thumb hovered over the send button.
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He could feel the words in his chest, pressing against his ribs. It had been months since she left, but tonight, it felt like it had just happened.
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He deleted the message.
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Stood up.
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The room tilted slightly, but he steadied himself. He walked to the window, looking down at the quiet, rainy street below. The streetlights buzzed. A couple walked past, arms wrapped around each other, laughing softly.
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John exhaled, leaning his forehead against the glass.
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He thought about going to bed. Trying to sleep.
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But he knew how that would go.
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So he went to the kitchen instead, rummaged through the cabinets, found another bottle. He twisted off the cap and took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
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His eyes landed on something tucked into a corner on the counter.
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Emily’s coffee mug.
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She had forgotten it when she left. Or maybe she had left it on purpose.
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He picked it up, running his thumb along the rim.
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There was a crack near the handle.
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He had told her a hundred times to throw it out, but she never did.
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“It’s got character,” she’d say, smirking.
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John set the mug down carefully.
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He went back to the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
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The clock read 2:09 AM.
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He turned on his side, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.
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The phone was still there, just within reach.
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But he didn’t pick it up again.
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He just laid there, listening to the sound of the city, waiting for morning to come.
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The whiskey had done its job—his body was heavy, his mind slow—but sleep didn’t come yet. He listened to the rain and the radiator clicking in the corner of the room. At some point, he must have closed his eyes, because when he opened them again, the clock read 5:27 AM.
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And then he heard it.
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A knock at the door.
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Soft, hesitant.
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John didn’t move at first. Maybe he had imagined it.
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Then, another knock.
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He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His head pounded. His throat was dry. He ran a hand over his face, as if that would somehow make him look less terrible.
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The knock came again.
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John pushed himself up and walked to the door. He hesitated, hand on the knob, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t know what he expected—some drunk neighbor, maybe, or the wrong apartment.
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But when he opened the door, she was there.
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Emily.
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Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face. She had two bags with her—one slung over her shoulder, the other at her feet. Her eyes flicked over him, taking him in, and she let out a slow breath.
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“Geez, John,” she murmured. “You look awful.”
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John swallowed hard.
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She was here.
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Really here.
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His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, his eyes burned with tears. He clenched his jaw, exhaling shakily, willing himself to hold it together.
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Emily’s face softened. Her own eyes shimmered, and she let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.
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“Don’t do that,” she whispered, blinking rapidly.
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John wiped his face roughly with the heel of his hand, shaking his head. “I—” His voice broke. He looked away, pressing his lips together.
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Emily let go of her bag and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him.
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And just like that, he let go.
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He buried his face in her shoulder, his hands gripping the back of her coat. She smelled the same—so amazing. Emily held him tighter, her fingers pressing into his back. He felt her shoulders shake, her breath hitch.
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“I missed you,” she whispered.
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John nodded against her.
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“Me too.”
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They stood there, holding each other, the weight of everything pressing between them. The loneliness. The nights apart. The stupid, useless fights. The silence that had stretched far too long.
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Finally, Emily pulled back just enough to look at him.
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“It won’t be perfect,” she said, her voice thick. “It never will be.”
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John nodded again. “I know.”
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She swallowed, her fingers curling in the fabric of his t-shirt. “But I don’t want to keep pretending like we don’t need each other.”
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John let out a shaky breath. “Me neither.”
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Emily studied his face for a moment longer, then sighed, pressing her forehead to his.
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“Gosh, you really do look like hell,” she murmured.
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John let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Well.”
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She smiled a little, her eyes still wet.
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John cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
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“Come inside,” he said softly.
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Emily nodded.
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She picked up her bag, and John stepped aside, letting her in.
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The door closed behind them.
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They didn’t say much after that. They didn’t need to. Emily set her bags down by the door, kicked off her shoes, and followed John to the bedroom. He pulled back the blanket, and they climbed in together, the bed still warm from where he had been lying.
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Outside, the rain started again—soft at first, then steady, tapping against the window like a lullaby. John lay on his back, Emily curled against his chest, her fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on his arm. He closed his eyes, breathing her in, feeling her heartbeat against his side. The world outside didn’t matter. The past didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was this: her presence, her warmth, and the way she felt so good beside him.
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And yeah, he knew it wasn’t going to be perfect, it never would be. But as he lay there, holding her, listening to the rain, it sure felt like heaven.
- Mark Gammill