6 Months Ago:
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”
The song fades in and out, lights flashing, blackness clawing at everything. I try to move, I try to open my eyes, but it’s like I’m trying to run a marathon twenty feet underwater - everything coming in slowed, dragged-down apathy.
And then there’s the pain, and the pain is everything.
It’s consuming, and in every single fucking part of my body, all at once. I hurt in places you don’t even think about, like the tip of your nose, the inside of my left elbow. My insides - places where I vaguely think my kidneys live. Or maybe spleen.
It doesn’t matter because right now, it’s all just agony. Right now, I want to be literally anywhere but here, inside this body.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”
It’s my birthday.
I force my eyes open, and I want to scream at the pain, but I can’t because something’s blocking my throat.
A tube.
The cold feeling is like death itself, clawing at me and trying to drag me under. But it’s the cold, frozen certainty that I’m paralyzed that has my hands yanking up against the pain.
Not paralyzed.
Just really, really fucked up.
I choke, clawing at the tube. Alarm bells blare next to me, there’s a sudden commotion, and faces I don’t know are leaning over me. Hands push me down, a big guy presses on my chest with a beefy arm, and I’m screaming and sputtering as loud as I can as the tube is pulled from my throat, one agonizing inch at a time.
I blink, my head swimming and my vision going in and out.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”
“It’s my birthday,” I mumble, to no one.
Well, it’s more like, “iiiffs muh birrfdaay.”
The big guy in ignores me, still holding me down as he shines a light into my fucking eyes.
It comes back in flashes then. There was a toast, I think. Maybe more. Brent was there, someone else. We had some drinks. I don’t know how many.
But it’s before that that seems clearer. Before that, it’s the email from the private investigator I hired in LA to make sure Chris held to his side of the deal. There’s been no sign of him, though I already know that since I’ve got another one watching him in his new life in New Hampshire.
But then, it was never really Chris I was interested in, now was it.
It’s the picture though that did it. Somewhat grainy, shot through a telephoto lens. Shots of her at work at her part-time barista gig or coming out of a show. Sitting alone at her kitchen table - a new one, in a new apartment - alone, and sad. And thin. She looked too thin.
I remember the phone call I made before I stepped in for the toast, where I fired the guy in LA, told him to bill me and never watch her again.
Enough.
Enough, is enough, is enough. My obsession has become a sickness. For a long time, I told myself I was doing this to make sure no one as fucked up as me got to her. I told myself I was doing this for her. I told myself they never deserved her in the first place if they took the money to walk away - that I was helping her. Like doing this atoned for being truly awful to her for pretty much the entire time she lived next to me.
But this has become a fucking cancer, and eventually, it’s going to kill me. Because eventually, I’m going to watch her break one time too many. One day, she won’t bounce back. One day, it won’t be about keeping the “guys like me” away from her, it’ll just be her heart breaking one time too many, and going dark forever.
And that really will kill me.
So that’s what I remember. Closing the chapter, something breaking inside, and stepping into Brent Carmichael’s place for a toast. Fuck if I remember what we were toasting to, but I sure as hell hope it’s not me.
I don’t know where I am.
“Where the fuck am I!” I scream, my throat on fucking fire and the tears stinging my eyes as the hellish pain from earlier comes swimming over me.
“Mr. Crown, I need you to stay calm.”
My eyes dart feverishly, looking for the voice until I spot the guy with silver hair and a mustache standing on the other side of where I’m lying.
“Happy BIRTH-day dear Jonathan, happy birthday to you!”
“That’s not my name,” I mumble, my lips like fucking Jello.
“What’s that, Mr. Crown?”
I look back up at the silver mustache dude, and then past him to the family gathered around a white bed on the other side of the room. They’re holding balloons, and a kid with a cast on his arm is blowing out candles on a cake.
“It’s my birthday.”
Silver mustache glances quickly at the big guy and then back to me.
“Mr. Crown, do you know where you are?”
And I suddenly do, I just wish I didn’t.
I’m in a hospital.
I was at Brent’s. I had some drinks. I got in a car—
I freeze, my face going numb as I look back to him.
I got into a car with Dylan.
And suddenly, the replay hits - the roar of the engine, the fucking Justin Timberlake song playing on the Ferrari’s speakers, the metal smashing through the windshield out of nowhere.
The weightlessness before the fall.
The long drop.
The rush of water drowning my screams, and the realization when I turn to my right that I’m the only one still in the car.
The scream catches in my throat as I roar at the world and God and life itself. And then they tell me, about Dylan, and this time, it’s an agony worse than the pain in my body and the fire in my right leg.
I’m still screaming as they give me a shot of something, but by the time the cops show up, I’m numb.
* * *
Present:
I sit on the floor, knees bent with my arms resting on them as I watch another petal fall.
The last of my mother’s roses are dying. The hydroponics system isn’t working, or maybe the dirt I planted them in sucks, or it might be that I got ripped off with that three thousand dollar a bag crushed-fossil fertilizer shit from Paris.
Or maybe at the end of the day, she was right: maybe I don’t know shit about gardening.
I don’t know how to make things grow at all, apparently. In fact, there’s a good chance I’ve got the opposite effect on things - whatever I touch withers and fucking dies, like some sort of shitty version of a Midas touch.
I can see that pretty clearly now. There are a lot of things I can see clearly now actually.
Another petal falls, and it’s almost like I can see the stems darkening and the flowers turning grey before my eyes.
I’ve called her about one bazillion times. Fuck my pride, or whatever that stick up my ass is that I call pride. I’ve called again, and again, and again, like a fucking punch line to a sad, pathetic joke. Like everything I always said I’d never be.
Except I’m painfully aware of how wrong I’ve been, about everything.
Back before, I hated her for being the harbinger of the changes that brought the darkness to my life. I knew how stupid that was, but hating her - or at least telling myself I did - was therapy. Time went on though. We got older, and I hated her because hating her was easier than admitting to myself that I loved her.
I could find her. Shit, finding Ana and inserting myself into her life is something I’ve done for years. But it’s different this time, and I know it. This time, she’s cut the strings somehow. I’m no longer the puppet master, I’m the wooden fucking toy with the big nose, lying on the ground wishing he was real.
There’s the briefest knock on my door before it swings open. I whip my head around to glare at Brent as he just comes waltzing in. I want to cut him down to size, and remind him of his damn place, and remind him that he’s not my friend, but I bite my tongue. The truth is, the rest of them are gone, and Brent’s still here.
I still scowl at him though.
“What are you doing in here?”
He beams, all fucking sunshine and happiness when the whole fucking world is crumbling around me.
“We have business.”
“In the study,” I growl, glancing at my watch as I pull myself off the floor. “And in an hour.”
He shrugs like he barely heard me as he strides to the round table mostly covered in crap in the middle of my quarters. He pushes a bunch of the stuff to the side, most of it cascading off and crashing to the floor in a heap.
“Hey!” I growl, snarling at him. “The fuck is your problem?”
Brent raises a brow. “Was that organized?”
“No,” I scowl.
“Have a seat, Crown.” He pushes one of my high-backed chairs towards the table and then makes his way to my mini-bar.
Begrudgingly, I sit.
“You a Manhattan fan, buddy?”
I frown. “The cocktail?”
“Yeah.”
I frown as I shake my head. “I’m trying to lay off.”
He turns and smirks at me over his shoulder as he reaches for a bottle. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously,” I mutter. Brent might be the only one still here, but this new casual “buddy” thing of his is getting on my nerves.
“Well, we’ve got some serious strategizing to do concerning your former friends.” He shrugs. “It’s going to get ugly, man.”
Fuck it.
“Fine. Manhattan it is. Make it strong.”
“You bet, bud.”
I hear the tinkle of a metal spoon against glass and ice, and then Brent’s waltzing back to the table looking pleased with himself as he slides me the drink.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the - even by my standards - giant-sized cocktail and taking a big slug.
“All right, let’s get down to business.”
Brent sits opposite me, pulling out legal folders full of papers. He sighs heavily, shaking his head as he glances over some of them.
“So what’s first.”
I take another big slug of the drink, feeling better already. I feel good, actually. Relaxed, way less tense than I was earlier.
Shit, maybe I did need a drink.
“I don’t even know where to start, buddy,” Brent murmurs, shooting me a quick glance before turning back to his papers.
“At the beginning.”
I snort the second I say it, like I’ve just cracked a hilarious joke. I blink, grinning as I reach for my drink and take another pull.
Brent looks up, smiling at me.
“We go way back, don’t we Sebastian?”
“Sure,” I slur, staring at my drink as I nod.
My tongue feels heavy.
“High school was fun, huh?”
“Yeah, absolutely,” I mumble, suddenly wondering why the hell I’m so tired. I slowly drag my eyes to the drink in my hand, frowning slightly.
“You ever been in love, Bastian.”
Brent’s words are like a million miles away, but I nod slowly in response.
“I mean for real love, not parents or that shit.”
I nod again.
“Yeah, I have,” I say quietly, my words coming from somewhere outside of myself.
“Anastasia.”
I jerk my head up, focusing on Brent.
“Maybe,” I wave a hand lazily. “I don’t know.”
Brent smiles again.
“I was in love once.”
“Cool, man.” I nod seriously, suddenly and maybe a little strangely wondering why the hell Brent and I haven’t had this talk years ago. My head droops to the side, easing against one of the wings of the high-backed chair.
I think about sitting up straight, but it’s so damn comfortable slumped over like this. I reach for my drink, but give up when my hand feels too heavy to move.
Brent chuckles, shaking his head wistfully.
“Yeah, buddy, I was in love once.”
He suddenly looks up at me, his eyes locking on mine.
“Remember Maisy Karl?”
I frown. “I—”
“I’ll refresh your memory.”
Brent’s voice is tight, his smile quickly fading.
“Blonde, beautiful, funny, smart. She was on the tennis team - amazing backhand.”
Brent’s face goes tight, and suddenly, through the haze slowly pulling me under, the memory comes through clearly.
Oh shit.
The party. The night I missed seeing Ana play over in Greenport. The night I—
“You fucked her, Bastian.” Brent’s hands tighten to fists on the table in front of him.
“You—” he swears as he stands abruptly, turning and clenching his fists before he whirls back to me. “You had your pick of any fucking girl in the world, and you fucked Maisy goddamn Karl, in my house” He slams his fists against the tabletop as he leans over it right in my face.
“In my bed, you fucking prick!” he roars. He screams at me, but I can’t move. I literally can’t move.
“Brent, that was a long time—”
“We’ve gotta strategize, Bastian!” His voice is manic now as he whirls, yanking his briefcase open and pulling something else. Suddenly, there’s a piece of paper covered in words on the table in front of me. I squint, picking out bits like “relinquishing claim” and “transfer of account stewardship.”
There’s a pen in my hand, Brent’s fingers pushing mine around is and moving it towards the page.
“The fuck are you doing.”
“Right here, buddy,” he spits. “Right here on the dotted line. There we go.”
He’s moving my hand across the page, and I want to fight it, or lunge out of the chair and choke him with the pen, but I just let it happen. I’m fading fast, and it’s just so much easier.
The pen falls from my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble through puffy lips, across a tongue that feels too thick, and uttered from a throat that feels like a hand is closing around it.
I’m not saying sorry to Brent, I think I’m just saying it to life in general.
Maybe to her.
“Apology not accepted, douchebag.”
Brent snatches the paper from under my fingers, slipping it into his briefcase and snapping it shut.
“It’s been so good working with you, Bastian, but I think the time has come for us to part ways.”
I shake my head, words no longer coming as Brent picks the briefcase with whatever the fuck I just signed inside of it and raps his knuckles on the table.
Somehow, I find the strength to move. Somehow I manage to shift my weight and grip the arms of the chair as if trying to stand.
Brent just laughs as he shoves me back into it. My head droops to the side as I try and muster the strength to stand again.
“Nice knowing you, Sebastian,” he mutters, standing over me and pushing me by the neck back into the chair.
The last of my strength evaporates.
“Now fuck off and die.”
The world goes black, and I slip away.