A heavy sigh. How could he let that happen? She was gone now… because of him.
Chekov looked down at the ground, tears threatening to tumble down his cheeks. He swallowed; guilt a heavy lump in his throat. How could he face Spock now? He couldn’t… Shakily, he stood, finding a bottle of vodka in his quarters. He unscrewed the lid, drinking the clear liquid straight from the bottle. It burnt on the way down. He deserved it. Gasping, his eyes overflowed with the tears that then rolled down his pale cheeks. The vodka still in hand, he drank more. It seemed to make him feel worse, not better. He still deserved it. With this in mind, Chekov continued to drink, pushing himself deeper and deeper into a depressed state. He held the bottle tighter around the neck and held himself steady on the bed, looking up at a light in his room, and he cried. Hard. He tried not to make too much noise, which resulted in violent sobs shaking his frail frame.